


The Shape of You

by lirulin



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Language, Fluff and Angst, Geraskier Week, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, I describe violence pretty vividly avoid this if you don't care for that, Inspired by Art, Jaskier has at least one straight up panic attack, M/M, Rating May Change, Soulmates, Warnings May Change, angry big and happy smol, animal soulmates, inevitable angst, no betas we die like men, physical injury and medical care style hurt/comfort, slight AU, someone will die...of fun, very slight canon divergence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:01:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 68,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22821418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lirulin/pseuds/lirulin
Summary: Some people say it's old elven magic, a remnant from before the conjunction of the spheres. Other's will say it's the last fading vestiges of chaos as the modern era slowly drives all magic and wonder out of the world. Those people are, naturally, real killjoys whom Jaskier cannot envision loving anything, but that's fine. To each their own.Soulmate Spiritual Animal AU
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 554
Kudos: 1253
Collections: Fan Fiction Addiction, Geraskier





	1. Julian

**Author's Note:**

> I literally saw [this fanart](http://craftgamerzz.tumblr.com/post/190822600376/ya-alls-its-geraskierweek-day-1-soulmates) and immediately sat down and wrote this fic. I admit, I am new to this fandom. I binged the Netflix series and ended up diving headlong into everything and am now consuming the books and the games. I am an absolute sucker for Grumpy/Angry Big and Sunshine (or feral) Smol and boy does this pairing align nicely with that. I have not planned out where this story will go, I am just writing what comes to mind as I go. It will probably be largely fluff with a side of angst and maybe even some smut, I have no idea. But, I hope you enjoy this AU.

Some people say it's old elven magic, a remnant from before the conjunction of the spheres. Others will say it's the last fading vestiges of chaos as the modern era slowly drives all magic and wonder out of the world. Those people are, naturally, real killjoys whom Julian cannot envision loving anything, but that's fine. To each their own. 

Whatever it is, whatever kind of magic causes these creatures to spawn, it's a mystery for the ages and most people are happy to leave it at that. 

Nobody really questions the little creatures when they appear, at least not in his experience. They're good friends for young children and tireless protectors, shielding babies and toddlers from the harshness of the world. Sometimes they change, they'll turn into something else, shift forms from one animal to the next, or go a bit ephemeral, as the person they're linked to grows. Sometimes they're static, fixed into one shape and temperament, as whole and hale as any real animal. Big or small, shifting or static, they are always absolutely loyal, absolutely loving and devoted. Sure, they'll vanish from time to time, if the person they're bound to is contented or doesn't need them in that second, but they always come back.

Unless they don't....

And that is just a tragic state of affairs that Julian cannot stand to contemplate. He tears up at the very thought of it, stunned from early childhood by the gaping potential of that hideous fate looming over everyone. It's too sad, the death of a person's soulmate--better to focus on the romance of it all. (Can't let all of life be bogged down ruminating on mortality.) There are other reasons they might vanish, after all--after soulmates find one another, the creatures don't tend to stick around with any real consistency. They'll fade in and out, like little wisps, the memory of an animal as seen on a hazy morning. He'd only ever seen the barest phantoms of his parents' creatures.

Most adults didn't have creatures trailing behind them, not during day to day affairs. Certainly, when things were dire or someone was sick, it was not unusual to find a spirit creature nearby, but most people got on without their constant companionship. There are quite a few (Julian included) who never _have to_ do without, but they're a bit rarer than the usual rabble. Having a persistent, constant companion isn't unheard of, _per se_ , but it seems stranger and stranger the older one becomes. Those people have a special bond with their companion creatures, something dear and precious and endorsed by Destiny itself.

That's what Julian Alfred Pankratz tells himself as he buries his fingers into the thick scruff of the creature that has followed him around all his life. He sighs as he presses his face into that impossibly soft fur and the creature beneath him huffs in response.

"I wonder when I'll meet your other self," he muses into the wolf he has draped himself over, cuddling close as he is wont to do at any opportunity. "I wonder how much like you they'll be?"

His soulmate is a static sort, stalwart and strong, steadfast and loyal, oh and devastatingly attractive--it's hard to tell that part from a wolf's visage but Julian is certain he's correct with his assessment. He can picture them in his mind, feel them in his bones. 

The white wolf is huge for a soul creature (a feature that surely implies how strong his bond to his soulmate is). As a child it seemed unbelievably giant and as an adult it stands just at his hip. If it could reliably be said to weigh anything, given that it's more magic than bone and sinew, it would outweigh him by a not inconsiderable amount. It is a beautiful creature, a sturdy companion, and a bit terrifying to anyone who isn't Julian. It is a sight to behold, absolutely stunning in the day and at night? It might as well be made of moonlight, glorious and gleaming against the darkness. It stays forever at his heel, constantly close enough that he can graze his fingers against its fur with the barest motion. He adores everything about it, always has and will, and finds its presence reassuring in a way that words cannot possibly dream to capture.

That wolf loves him with its whole, giant, fluffy being, of this Julian is positive. It huffs and growls and is a surly, stalking lump that distrusts everyone and everything, but it loves him. It loves him so much, it has never vanished, not once, in the whole course of his life. It has always been beside him and he cannot begin to imagine it disappearing. It followed him everywhere from the day he could first crawl. It went with him to University, despite its obvious distaste for the place and, when he decided to seek his soulmate out, it followed him onto the open road.

It came with him,from city to hamlet, mountain to valley, shore to shore without hesitation. It hunted for him when he had no coin or food. It warmed him on cold nights under the stars. It growled and glowered with those lovely brown eyes when people tried to take advantage of him. It was so clever that he had even started to wonder if his soulmate might be a mage, instructing it from afar, and the very thought made his romantic heart swell.

Julian-- _Jaskier_ after he left University--searched high and low for his other half. He was dedicated to the search, spent every waking hour hunting as he imagined his wolf might. It did him absolutely no good and he spent a year on the road without even the barest lead. 

Then, he realized, he was an absolute idiot. 

He was hunting his soulmate like his own soul was a great white wolf--something he knew that it was absolutely _not_. (He did wonder what it might be, but that was neither here nor there. He'd find out eventually.) If his soulmate was looking for him (After all, why wouldn't they be?), they wouldn't be looking for a great white wolf. They'd be looking for _him_. He wasn't the sort of person who could relentlessly track prey, wasn't the sort who liked to live alone in the wilderness, who was given to hunting and foraging (though he certain had done enough of it at this point). 

He needed a new plan, something that matched him, something that would help someone seeking _him_ out.

Jaskier needed to become famous.

He was a talented musician (if he said so himself, which he did, very often) and had a penchant for performance. He relished crowds and had no fear of the stage (no fear of anything, really, which he guessed was a side effect of always having his soulmate's creature to protect him). He could travel the land, become the most famous bard of all time and, one day, his soulmate would find him.

"They'll fall right into my arms, you'll see," Jaskier said to the wolf at his side, walking backward with a skip in his step. The dusty road stretched out before them and, beyond the horizon, the edge of the world. He'd walk from one end to the other, the white wolf at his side, and his songs would inspire the masses. People would love him, melting beneath the romance of his voice, of the songs in his heart, and they would throw themselves at him (naturally). But he would turn them all down and soldier on, wandering the wide places of the world, bravely facing the unknown, until he found his one and only. Until he found the other half of his soul.

The wolf huffed as he sang a short ballad to this effect. 

Unfortunately, as Jaskier discovered when he started his romantic tour of the continent, not everyone enjoyed songs about soulmates. People would grumble, would ignore him--some of them even threw things. His heart would have broken for them if they weren't such absolute tits to him about it. Atop that, despite his earnest and heartfelt intentions, he didn't seem to have an innate talent for wordsmithing. His songs were...less than memorable and, generally, not well received.

"Alright, alright, it's fine. This is fine," he told the wolf as they hunkered down in the back room of a tavern, a space he'd rented with the very last of his coin so that they wouldn't have to suffer the spring rain. The wolf stared at him with its gorgeous, baleful brown eyes and he pressed his hands on either side of its face. He ruffled its cheeks, smushed them just a bit, and it huffed at him fondly, ruffling Jaskier's hair in the process. "New plan. Seeing that the world is full to the brim with cynics--Piteous souls, really. I mean, can you even imagine?--we will need a new routine. New songs. New inspiration."

The wolf rumbled a sound back at him. It sounded vaguely annoyed.

"Yes, that'll work, I know it," Jaskier said and the wolf shook its head, freeing its cheeks from Jaskier's hold. It didn't move away and Jaskier smiled at it. "Come on, Duck, let's get some sleep."

The wolf huffed again and Jaskier reclined against the wall of the storage room. The sacks of flour made a decent enough bed. Jaskier patted his chest and the wolf rose up off the floor and padded around him. When it flopped down, it rested its head and upper half atop him. Jaskier wrapped his arms around it and fell asleep, warm and happy and with a hopeful song already forming in the back of his mind. 

Wait, no. Cynics, remember? Less hope; people don't care for hope. More bleakness. Maybe a song about abortions? Those were fundamentally bleak.


	2. Geralt

Not everyone in this world has a soulmate. 

The creatures, the spirits that spawn and cling to children, they're not guaranteed. It's a flawed bit of magic, some remnant of a time before chaos settled into the cracks in the world, before it became what it is today. The phenomenon is common enough in children that, at one time or another, the magic probably afflicted anything sentient. It tapers off as people get older, as they learn more about the world, as they fall in and out of infatuation and become jaded. The little animals eventually vanish and, like a dream, they're summarily forgotten.

The world moves on, uncaring and indifferent, because true love is only the lynch-pin of children's stories. 

Some people take the loss harder than others, they steep in denial, turn bitter with the realities of life, and the lack of that magic lingers on them. It transforms from a dreamy obsession to a stinging wound. It freezes them up, pains them and spreads, like a snakebite left untreated. Sometimes they get past it, most people do, but something they don't. That wound festers and starts to eat away at them. Geralt has watched more than one lonely soul take that final step and lash out, has watched them become monstrous and unhinged. 

He's killed more than a few people over actions that their 'severed bond' inspired.

He understands--or, rather, he can empathize with them. To a degree. 

Witchers don't feel emotion, not keenly, if at all, but he's watched people long enough to know how small hurts can compound with time. How they can change from something crippling to something dangerous, something deadly.

He's never had a soulmate, not as a child and certainly not after he'd been turned into what he is today. His mother hadn't had one, little though he remembers her, but he hadn't grown up completely secluded from the concept. His master, Vesemir, occasionally had a little creature that danced around him. It came and went, a phantom like a mouse, half solid and half imagined. A few other Witchers had animals that would haunt them during the winter months but, more often than not, they'd fade away and that would be it.

All it took was a hard winter, a famine in a distant land, a sickness, or a battle and that ancient magic would ebb away like the tide. 

He didn't believe in Destiny. 

If it was real, anything more than a vague fantasy, Destiny was immeasurably cruel. If it were real, it was monstrous beyond the measure of all monsters that walked the earth. If it could grant the world true, eternal bonds and then strip them away as easily as anything? Well, if he thought Destiny was real, he'd have to spend the rest of his long life endeavoring to slay it with his own hands.

No, the world was just a series of events. It was a confluence of choices made in the past, a river that flowed inexorably forward. Sometimes it bent around the elements of the past, they changed the direction of the flow, but they didn't dictate it. It raced forward toward the unknown and didn't care in the slightest who was pulled under or why. 

Geralt never wanted a creature, never expected to find one following him. He was a Witcher, destined to walk The Path until it inevitably killed him. It was the only life he would ever have, so there was no reason to entertain the idea of an _other half_ , of someone to fill an imaginary void, to give what he didn't know he was lacking. He couldn't miss what he'd never had. He didn't bother trying to seek out something that could be snatched away because the currents of history whorled in an unfavorable way. He lived on that unfavorable whorl, it was his lot in life.

The events in Blaviken made his life harder, haunted him with the weight of his choices, but he carried on. Being hated wasn't new to him, people weren't fond of Witchers even at the best of times, but the pervasive nature of their hatred made it harder to do his job. He had expected the dirty looks, the jeering and people spitting in his path, that was par for the course. When they began throwing rocks at first sight, shouting insults and slurs, it became a real hindrance. It wore on him but it was predictable, in a way. 

Unfortunately, nothing in his life ever stayed predictable and, one morning on the road he woke to find a creature perched on his chest.

It was a lark...

A round, puffy little bird with brilliant blue and white feathers and dark little eyes that watched him without fear...except, truly, it wasn't. It wasn't an animal, not a real one. This was a bundle of magic and emotion made solid. It hopped on his chest, its little black feet tapping across his studded leather armor, its little wings fluttering excitedly, and twittered a melodious greeting. It sang a long song (for a bird so small) and tilted its head as it jumped closer to Geralt's face.

It looked like it was waiting for an answer.

"Fuck."

He spoke and, as soon as he said it, he felt a prickling at the back of his neck. Hot and distant, like the sensation of baking in the noonday sun. The little bird was delighted; it twittered and sang and Geralt's neck itched as a word hovered at the edge of his tongue. He swallowed it back, unwilling to give in to the magic that would have him name this creature with its owner's words, and glowered at it.

"No."

It cocked its head all the way to the side and leaned in, completely and utterly unafraid, until it could wipe its little beak and cheeks against his chin and the stubble he hadn't bothered to shave off. It tittered brightly once it had rubbed its fill and then flitted back to light on his knee.

"Go away." 

It sang at him, bright and beautiful and full of sunshine. It was just past dawn and golden sunlight was already creeping over the trees. The crisp cold of morning was a little numbing and the world was quiet...except for this damned creature. It twittered and tweeted and sang its little song and the sun rose as it did. Geralt scowled. He shooed it away with a swing of his hand but it just landed at his feet and kept hopping and twittering as he packed up his camp.

"I don't want you," he told it and it ignored him. As he packed it would hop after him on the ground. It kept a distance that was less than the length of his stride and, when he waved at it with a hand or his booted foot, it would flutter back a bit and then hop up to him again. It was relentless and cheerful and it wouldn't leave him alone.

Roach watched the little bird with open fascination and Geralt resisted the urge to swat at it while she was investigating. Animals often found the magical creatures interesting (probably because they were a grotesque facsimile of actual life) and Geralt didn't have it in him to deny Roach anything. The lark, for its part, twittered and chirped at Roach with the same insistent, constant determination that it leveled at Geralt. It would hop in front of her, fluttering and flapping, and whenever Roach snuffled at it or exhaled, it would be knocked over and blown this way or that. 

It was startlingly delicate and flighty.

Geralt had less than no interest in having a soul bound to his, if he thought he could break the bond by killing the little bird he would have tried (if only to spare that person the eventual heartbreak of unrequited love), but he already knew it didn't work that way. He couldn't kill it anymore than he could make it go away. It would follow him until it vanished and that would only happen if either the other person died, or if they let the notion of soulmates go. 

He was uncomfortable wishing the jaded sort of hurt he had seen in people onto someone...but he was more comfortable with that than wishing them death or, worse still, keeping them bound to him. That was a terrible way to spend a life, waiting and wondering when he would arrive and...what? Marry them? Settle down and live a quiet life? Give them a family? He couldn't imagine how that might devastate a person, to be so wholly denied all of that. He hoped they'd forget this whole nonsense quickly.

He mounted Roach and the little bird fluttered up to perch on his pauldron. It twittered softly and happily and its little beak picked at his hair. He growled at it.

"Come on, Roach, we can make it to Yspaden tonight," Geralt said and let out a tight huff of breath. The little bird went silent and attentive as he spoke, hanging off his every word. When he continued he was very firmly talking to _Roach_. "I heard talk of a pack of Barghest spotted along the riverbanks. We should deal with them before anyone is maimed."

The lark trilled a sad little whistle and then chirped brightly. Geralt pointedly didn't look at it as he nudged Roach's flanks and urged her toward the road.


	3. Little Lark

The little lark had no instincts whatsoever.

It wasn't real, so that made some sense, but even an imaginary bird should have some awareness of what it can and cannot do. This one was utterly oblivious to the fact that it was a very, very small creature. It seemed to think it was a temporarily embarrassed dragon rather than a simulacrum of a songbird. That wasn't to say that it was aggressive by nature, because it wasn't, not normally. When Roach and he traveled, it would flit from tree to tree, hop up and down Roach's neck, or plunk itself down on his shoulder. That was not, insofar as irritants were considered, such a terrible arrangement. It was colorful, it wasn't big enough to be an inconvenience, and it distracted on the long rides across plain and grassland.

The first real problem came from the fact that the little lark sang. Constantly. Regardless of the time of day or the dire nature of the situation. It would sing to greet the dawn, it would trill at the wind and rustling leaves, it would herald shadows of clouds, serenade Roach as she grazed, and chittered endlessly in his ear. The only time it was silent was when it slept (which it tended to do while perched on him, preferably while nestled in his hair).

It wasn't an unpleasant sound. Birdsong had a way of making everything a little more pleasant, but it was perpetual. It never strayed far enough that he couldn't hear it above or behind or below him. It became the background noise of his life, these sweet nonsense songs from the flitting blue bird that followed him about. He didn't encourage it, but the little bird was positively elated to be in his presence and it felt compelled to express that at all times.

He'd given up trying to shoo it away a few days after it first manifested. That had been almost a year ago and, for all the sweet songs and joy it tried to impart, the little bird had brought an equal amount of hatred his way. He didn't blame it, it wasn't the creature's fault, not directly. It didn't have the capacity for malice, let alone the intelligence to act on it if it suddenly found itself capable of hating him. It was an adoring little trick of magic and that, unfortunately, was the second problem.

The people who saw it with Geralt were fully capable of malice, they could act upon it, and each incident where someone lashed out because of that lark was as unnecessary and grating as the one that came before it.

The first time someone took exception to the little lark was in a small town west of Rinbe. As far as he knew, it didn't have a name. It was little more than an outcropping of farms, a woodcutter, and a tavern. Calling it a town was deeply generous. He hadn't intended to stop, or to stay in a room at the tavern, but merely to pass through. It was easier to camp out on the road, especially when he passed this close to Blaviken.

The tavern, however, had a bard in it. He could hear the threads of music playing as they rode up; they carried over the sounds of the trees and the chirping of summertime insects. When the lights of the tavern came into view, breaking up the dull half-light that followed sunset, he nearly cursed.

The little lark loved him, it loved Roach, it loved sunshine, flowers, tall grass, all manner of bugs, trees, and shiny things...but more than most of those it loved music. Geralt's life was particularly spartan when it came to music (at least the kind that wasn't generated by little birds), so it wasn't something they encountered very often. When they did encounter music, the little creature would do everything in its power to coerce him to stay nearby. It would flutter and chirp in loud, sharp little noises. It would cuddle his neck and chin with such emphatic energy and persistence that it became a hazard and a nuisance for the duration of its outburst. It would stare at him with its little dark eyes, hopeful and desperate, while cooing. It would flutter and flap around. It would pull at his hair and Roach's ears.

If he ignored it when it got this way, it would deflate, as though he'd stomped on it, and...could birds be melodramatic? Magic ones could, he'd discovered. It would let out little wheezing snatches of sound, halfway voiced echoes of its usual songs, would pout, and would fall largely silent and still for days on end.

It was pathetic.

Geralt knew it wasn't a real bird, not by any definition. It was just as likely to vanish overnight as a cloud in the sky, just barely more tangible than a dream. It wasn't a real bird but, if he thought about it for too long, he would remember that he wasn't a real human either. He'd never had a stomach for intentionally causing suffering, not if the cost of avoiding it was meager...so, when the bird darted to the windows of the tavern outside Rinbe, all alight with excitement and wonder, he'd resigned himself to stopping for a drink and a meal. He hadn't taken it anywhere, not indoors or otherwise, but he thought little of it. It was harmless and tiny. The only thing it could possibly be was loud and that was not overtly discouraged in taverns.

He'd hitched Roach to the post out front and entered the tavern. The little lark darted in after him, dipping out of the cool night air and into the dreary little tavern. The atmosphere had been stuffy, stale, and with a pervasive scent of warm, slightly off ale. There were ten men there, two women, and the bard that lured them in was posted up in the corner, perched atop a table, strumming on some stringed instrument. The patrons had been drunk enough that they hadn't truly noticed him enter, which was something of a feat, but the little lark was not as concerned with being unobtrusive as Geralt was.

It parted from Geralt as he went to the bar, eager to get closer to the music in a way that the Witcher was not. It fluttered through the rafters, hopping from one to the other, chittering brightly, with all its attention on the bard. The barmaid panicked when she saw it and plucked up a broom to swat at it and drive it toward a window. She'd probably thought it was a real bird, something that had got in and planned to shit everywhere before charging headlong into a window. Geralt caught her by the arm as she rounded the counter--it wasn't a tight hold, but it did stop her. Her head whipped around and, as soon as she made eye contact, she flinched back. She didn't have words, not in the moment, and he felt her heart start to race under his fingertips.

"It's mine," he said to her quickly and thought he'd been quiet enough that he hadn't interrupted anything. She'd been frozen with surprise (the sort that was rapidly developing into anxiety) and hadn't even attempted to move away from him, like a startled deer. Behind him, somewhere in the rafters near the center of the room, the lark started singing along with the bard. Whether it was the new, strange accompaniment that got their attention, or because Geralt was not as soft spoken as he thought, he wasn't sure...but the patrons noticed him then. The uptick in the song nearly drowned out the scraping sound of chairs, but it wasn't quite enough to hide the footfalls as several people stood. Someone growled at him from behind and Geralt closed his eyes, briefly, as he felt the situation begin to unravel.

" _Yours?_ "

He knew that tone; the open revulsion and anger were practically how one pronounced his name, nowadays. He let go of the barmaid and turned to face the room. Three men had risen from their seats and every other eye was on him. The music carried on for another bar or two before it tapered off awkwardly. The bard shrunk into the corner, performance forgotten, and glowered at Geralt and the little lark as he retreated.

"Yes, mine," Geralt confirmed and let out a short, plosive sigh. "It's not real, it won't make a mess."

"I _know_ what it is, _Witcher_." The man who spoke was in his late forties, perhaps, with a scraggly beard, a round, reddish face, and dressed in plain, dirt-smeared clothes. If Geralt had to guess, he'd have pegged him for a farmer. He was also three sheets to the wind, drunk enough that it was showing on his neck and ears. His two friends were no better, nearly swaying where they stood. None of them had so much as a stick on them, let alone a weapon. While he wasn't keen on standing there and listening to them insult him, they could be ignored without much effort.

"What I want to know is how _something like you_ has one of those." He spat, both metaphorically and literally. It hit Geralt's boot and he let out a low grunt of displeasure as he eyed the drunk.

"I ask myself that frequently."

They did not appreciate his candor.

Bitterness poured off the trio in waves and, while it wasn't something he generally took stock of, Geralt assumed it was due to the lack of other creatures in the building. The little lark was the only one of his kind here. That fact (combined with the fact that he belonged to Geralt) had soured the mood as quickly as he'd ever seen. The looks the patrons leveled at him were increasingly upset, bordering on hateful; he expected it wouldn't be long before they started throwing things at him.

"You should leave," came a sharp, feminine voice from behind him. The barmaid's panic lingered but the familiar stench of fear was rapidly supplanting it. Her outrage was palpable, he could almost taste it on the air.

"No, no, Margaret, he should stay--pull up a seat and show off his little friend. Regale us, _Witcher_ , with tales of the fucking deviant whose soul you snared," the drunk man snarled and, in a feat hubris that was as predictable as it was ill-advised, closed the distance so he was standing toe to toe with Geralt. Geralt outweighed him by at least two stone and stood taller than him by more than a head. The drunk wasn't dangerous, not like this, not against a fully armed and armored Witcher.

The little lark didn't seem to realize that, however.

When the drunk fisted his red, calloused hand on the edge of Geralt's armor, gripped him with the idea of holding him steady for a punch, the little lark let out a shrill, dissonant cry. The man drew back his fist, fully intent to break Geralt's nose if he could manage it, but before he could attempt it or Geralt could dislodge him, that little bird dove down from the ceiling and rammed its little body into the side of the drunk's head. It collided with his temple with enough force that the man flinched, but that was all. The little lark only weighed a few ounces and was mostly made of feathers, if it could have broken its neck that would have happened long before charging something did any lasting damage.

Ultimately, the bird stunned itself almost as effectively as it stunned the rest of them--it recovered faster than they did, though, and exploited that advantage immediately. In a bare moment it was back up, flapping its wings with desperate ferocity, twittering in little shrieking bursts as its tiny, blunt black claws scratched and scraped at the side of the drunk's face. It pecked and snapped at him with its little beak, clicking and clacking with fury as it did its level best to savage the man beyond all recognition.

Of course, it didn't actually manage to hurt him.

Even if it had caught him in the opened eye, Geralt would have been shocked if it could have done more than give him a raised scratch. If any wound that bird inflicted bled more than just the slightest line of red, he'd have been utterly shocked. The bird did manage to startle the drunk into releasing Geralt, which was advantageous overall, but Geralt would have much preferred it had not attempted to defend him. The drunk man flailed, swinging his arms and trying to swat the deft little songbird, but he was very drunk and the bird was (surprisingly) nimble. The drunk stumbled back, shouting for help and cursing the little lark, until his leg caught on his discarded chair. He stumbled and fell backward, twisting and swatting at the bird as he went down. The side of his head crashed against the table on the way to the floor and he bounced off it before he completed the journey.

The other patrons scrambled to help him--Geralt could smell blood, more than the little bird's claws could have possibly drawn. The table must have busted his nose in the tumble. It probably wasn't broken, there wasn't enough blood for that, but that was a distinction most people weren't keen on making in the heat of the moment. The drunk's friends, startled by his collapse, took it upon themselves to fight Geralt in his stead. They were brave and loyal but, much like the bird, staggeringly stupid. They dove at him in clumsy tandem and shoved him back into the bar behind him. One of them managed to land a punch against his jaw, but it barely had the force to bruise. Geralt put them both on their asses quickly enough, but the tussle had made a mess of the bar. He'd knocked over a few tankards, a pitcher of ale, and a stack of ceramic plates. More than a few of those had shattered to pieces as they hit the floor.

"Enough!" the barmaid snapped, her panic and fear having reached a fever pitch. Her breath wavered as she sucked it in, there was a jangle of heavy chain, and Geralt froze in place. The little bird swooped here and there, terrorizing the recovering drunk and the remaining patrons that were trying to see to his bleeding face. The lot of them jeered at him, at the bird, at Witchers in general and, as it always did, the situation escalated to a place where mortal danger was a real possibility.

"Stand up!" the barmaid shouted. Geralt rose from his crouch and turned slowly. Behind him, the barmaid had a loaded crossbow leveled at his head. It wasn't the sort of weapon that bandits or soldiers carried, it was rural and old, with a heavy stock and chain to draw the bowstring and nock the bolt. It was unwieldy and imposing, the sort of weapon used to hunt larger prey, to fell bucks in a single clean shot. The bolt was little more than a sharpened branch with fletching.

She had a poor grip on the crossbow.

She was waifish, thin and delicate, and it was far too heavy a weapon for her to heft reliably. Right now, the way she was holding that weapon was far more dangerous than anything else in this tavern. Her hands shook as she held the crossbow aloft, as she tried to maintain her aim at his head, and Geralt lifted his hands in what he hoped was a placating gesture. He backed away half a step as she came near to bumping him with the end of it. It was the sort of weapon that she had probably only held once or twice in her life, something to be used rarely and only in special, dire situations.

It was meant to drive off wolves or boar.

Or Witchers.

"You need to leave!" she shouted and shook the weapon for emphasis, "Right now!"

The chain used to reload it swung freely and knocked against her hand as she shook it. Her grip slipped just the barest amount as it did and Geralt watched as she adjusted her fingers. Her hands were sweating.

Fuck.

"Alright," Geralt agreed in as gentle a tone as he could manage.

He had no desire to fight these people, even if they wanted to fight him. He certainly didn't want to draw any of his weapons, not in some rural tavern filled with regular humans, and if he remained he would have to. Most of these people hadn't done more than jeer and glare at him, they didn't deserve violence. The idea of doing them harm was monstrous and Geralt didn't entertain it.

He took a careful step back, calm and ready to be out the door in short order, but there was a sharp little trill to his right and the world slowed. The little lark charged at the woman holding the crossbow, swooped and slammed itself into the side of her head. It barely connected with enough force to knock her hat askew. Unfortunately, this time, the lark didn't just bounce away. It got tangled in her long hair as it attacked and, once it recovered from its charge, the both of them panicked. It flailed and scrambled, not to attack but to be free of the hair that ensnared him. She shrieked and recoiled violently, desperately trying to put distance between her face and the panicking bird.

Of course she lost her grip on the crossbow.

Of course her hand had slipped to the lever that held the bowstring taut.

And, of course, Geralt was standing close enough that any chance of her missing him was so minuscule it was effectively nonexistent.

The bolt flew truer than the barmaid's aim had been and, in a distant way, Geralt could appreciate how well she must have maintained that weapon. Within a split-second of the little lark's attack, a sharpened bolt as thick around as his thumb shot up from the falling crossbow and pierced straight through his left shoulder. It connected with a wet thud, driving straight through his armor with uncommon ease. It didn't pass clean through him, he wasn't that lucky. It caught under his collarbone and the angle tweaked just slightly, digging into a muscle that connected to his neck. It missed his shoulder blade and came to a halt just as the tip forced itself out the other side of his back and through the leather again. In one shot she had handily ruined three pieces of his leather armor and had effectively incapacitated his left arm. 

If it had been intentional he'd have been impressed.

Geralt grunted at the impact and stumbled back one, two, three steps. The force of the bolt twisted him a bit as it pierced, but he didn't lose his footing. He found his balance after the third step, halting his momentum before his back hit the door. He didn't want to imagine how much it would hurt to force that bolt back through from the other side.

It took him a second to absorb what had just happened, and then another to right himself and stand back up.

Those two seconds passed in absolute, crushing silence as everyone in the tavern went painfully, unfailingly still.

The sudden stink of terror was nearly enough to choke him out; he could barely hear his own pulse over the sudden racing of the barmaid's heart.

The bolt wasn't a scratch he could simply brush off, it was a real and serious injury that he would have to deal with very soon--it hurt in that memorable, unique way something only managed to hurt when it was sticking out of both sides of you and had also managed to catch on your clothing in the process. The pain in his shoulder was severe to blinding but, given the situation and his usual metric for injuries, he decided it would be best to ignore it. For now. He could focus past the pain and discomfort, so he did. He wasn't fool enough to just yank the bolt out, despite how dearly he wanted to, and instead turned his head to look it over.

Fuck that had hurt.

He eyed the bolt, watched the slow trickle of blood rise to the surface of his armor, and sighed.

When he looked up both the barmaid and the bird were rigid with horror, frozen and staring in abject fear--couldn't smell it on the bird, but he'd wager that had to do with it not having a real body.

The barmaid's eyes were so wide he could see the nearly all of their whites. Tears streamed down her face before she remembered to breathe again. Her eyes locked on him like he was the grim specter of death and it was all she could do to wait for his blade to come down on her. The bird recovered faster than she did. It struggled free from her hair in short order and dropped, nearly hitting the floor before it remembered it could fly. It tittered in panic as it fluttered to him, bobbing up and down and around him, flying more like an alarmed honeybee than a songbird.

He ignored it and his gaze drifted over the other patrons of the tavern.

They were, to a man, just as horrified and shocked as the barmaid. Several of them were staring at the swords on his back, waiting for him to draw them. Others had fixated on the bolt in his chest and were probably wondering why he wasn't dead. Nobody moved and more than a few of them were holding their breath, the rest were in the process of hyperventilating. The atmosphere was so excruciatingly tense that the air seemed likely snap if he let the stillness persist. Geralt didn't say anything. They didn't want his assurances or his presence, and he wagered he only had a few seconds before the barmaid screamed, or fainted, or both.

He grunted his distaste for the situation, turned, and left without another thought.

Roach hadn't been bothered by the brevity of their stop and was ready to go when he mounted her. The bird didn't cease flitting and fretting until they finally made camp, nearly an hour down the road.

When he'd finally dismounted, ready to make camp in a copse of trees a goodly distance from the road, Geralt had snatched the bird clean out of the air. He caught the little lark in his gloved hand and held it fast--it didn't struggle even slightly, didn't flinch or panic, just stared at him with those dark, shiny eyes. If it could have wept he had no doubt it would have been reduced to wailing sobs the moment they left the tavern.

"Can you understand me?" Geralt asked. There must have been something especially intimidating in about his tone because the bird didn't answer aloud. No, instead of chirping, whistling, or singing, it gave a shivering little shake and clicked its beak. There was no telling what that meant, whether it was a yes, no, or something else entirely.

" _Don't do that again._ "

Another click and a shake.

When he'd opened his hand and began dealing with the bolt in his shoulder, the little creature had picked up with singing to him again. He snapped at it to stop and, blessedly, was granted a span of silence while he patched himself up.

He'd tried, after that first time, to explain to the little lark that it couldn't do these things. He'd tried to explain that the bolt could have just as easily hit anyone else in that tavern, that not everyone was a Witcher, that not everyone could survive a wound like that with his ease, that if they were injured because of something it did, it would be Geralt's fault. The bird had no reaction to any of what he told it and, frankly, he shouldn't have been surprised. Even if it was a magical amalgam of forces and emotions, it was still a bird. They were not known for an overabundance of intelligence.

Finally, he'd told it that he could have been killed if the bolt had been even slightly lower. It was true and, strangely, the bird seemed to understand that particular hypothetical. It was alarmed, on edge, and frantic for days after he'd revealed that his death had nearly occurred. When it finally calmed down, whatever conclusion it had come to regarding his potential mortality, well, it was not a helpful one.

The bird reacted to the threat of his death by becoming more aggressive to hostile creatures and people. It fretted over his injuries when he suffered them, brought him little gifts of shiny stones and string when he was recovering, and sang more sedate, mournful songs while he patched himself up. It attempted to charge into battle against anything and everything that wished him harm which...was quite a number of things. It was as brave as it was stupid and, unfortunately, as amusing as it was to watch a lark try to maim a werewolf, there was a lot of danger in having this little songbird following him around.

It was dangerous for him, and it was dangerous for anyone and everyone around them.

It was fortunate the little thing couldn't be killed, truly, but Geralt eventually had to find a way to keep it from being underfoot. At first he'd tried cages. Those were a spectacular failure that rarely managed to even slow it down. That result wasn't shocking, it wasn't a real bird after all. He tried bribery; he gave it gifts similar to those it gave him, he promised it attention or gentleness when the time was appropriate, but that also failed. The greatest prize was, apparently, being near him. Giving that up, even for a moment, was beyond the little bird's comprehension.

Eventually he was able to train it, somewhat.

The bird, as desperately fond of music as it was, would go dead silent and watch him, rapt with awe and adoration, if he whistled at it. It snapped to attention instantly when he started whistling, watching him like he was singing for it...which, he supposed, he was. With repetition, it learned a few commands. It knew what he meant for it to do when he whistled various notes and short snippets of melody. It learned to be quiet, to sit still, to hide, to retreat, to fetch Roach, to sing across the battlefield, to drop a stone and make a sound. It learned to behave when Geralt demanded it, to be a predictable asset in times of need, when it was dangerous for it to do otherwise, and the Witcher accepted the situation. It wasn't ideal, it was barely satisfactory, but it was the best he was going to get.

He couldn't make the little lark behave outside of dire straits, or at any other time where it would ease his work or conversations, but so long as it didn't put him or Roach in danger, he could tolerate the eccentric creature.

He didn't really have any other choice.


	4. Duck

The people of Guleta were truly devoid of class. 

They were brutes and common drunkards, the lot of them. Every man, woman, and child in the whole of the city lacked even the slightest appreciation for the arts. It was shocking, truly shocking, that so many people could be so very uncultured and Jaskier was having quite a time recovering from the whole ordeal. He had tried to be accommodating, had all but bent himself in two in his attempts to appease his the dregs of Guleta. He had varied the content and musical styling of songs he sang, had danced more, had danced less, had winked and smiled, had been on the verge of soulful tears--why he had even worn his nicest silk doublet and his most flattering (tightest) leggings.

He'd been the very picture of a bard. A painting of him could have been used to determine who was and who was _not_ a bard, he had been so well composed.

"A sea of tin ears, from the town center unto the very horizon--every one of them unable to comprehend the simplest harmonies! It is a tragedy, a travesty, that so many surly folk should be so grievously afflicted, is it not, Duck?" Jaskier complained as he knelt on the stony shore of the creek. A short distance away, perched on a large flat rock, the white wolf soaked in the late summer sun. Its eyes were closed but its ears were perked in his direction, taking in his complaints with magnanimous, silent neutrality.

Always the voice of reason, his white wolf.

"Absolutely right! They didn't deserve us!" Jaskier agreed emphatically, one of his hands gesturing sharply at the wolf. It hadn't bothered making a sound, let alone expressing an opinion, but neither of those were strictly necessary for this conversation. Its tail swished idly, sliding off the rock and dragging along the surface of the creek. It stretched, slowly and indulgently, and huffed as it rolled onto his back. It wasn't a dignified pose, laid out with its legs and paws limp but pointed toward the sky. The white wolf looked positively silly and everything about it was overwhelmingly endearing. Jaskier paused in his work for a moment, for just long enough to smile at the spectacle the wolf made. 

Despite being hip deep in his frustrated rant, his mood perked up. His smile didn't fade, not even as he returned to his grievances.

"If they want to listen to that hack Valdo Marx as he belts out a stolen tune--lifted, doubtless, from some tone-deaf milkmaid half the world away--well, that's their business and I shall leave them to it! I won't spare them another thought, not a single second of my time from this moment hence, from this day unto the very end of my days," Jaskier complained idly, his tone drifting into something distractedly lyrical as he scrubbed at the delicate fabric in his water-logged hands. There was no fire or fury left in his ranting. They'd been walking away from Guleta for a day already and any lingering hurt he felt was easily dismissed. 

The words did manage to fill space, nicely, nevertheless.

The sounds, what little of his voice bounced back at him, made the forest seem a little less...remote. 

A little less lonely.

He didn't dislike the forest, of course. It was lovely, particularly along these mountains and alongside this picturesque little river. It would not be beyond reason to build a little cabin in this very meadow--or it wouldn't be if he were any sort of carpenter. He was just beginning to tire of the terrain, that's all. He'd been traveling along the mountains before he arrived at Guleta, moving from town to city, city to town, in search of inspiration. All that hiking, through hill and valley, on mountain passes and moors had provided nothing for his art. Nothing had had managed to claim his imagination for more than a few hours and, sadly, he had only wrung a smattering of verses out of the things that had drawn his eye.

For all their wandering and work, for all the months upon months of travel, he had accomplished so very little. He'd tried to build up some fame, some ardor among the masses across the region...but had only had mixed success. That is to say he had some success mixed with a healthy, character-building amount of failure.

He had experienced no success, none whatsoever, and it was starting to wear on his relentless cheer.

Jaskier had been booed off the stage in Guleta, in Fysenlaan, and in every town, village, and way-point that stretched between the two. In Guleta they'd been so very moved by his singing that they'd decided simple booing was insufficient. They'd thrown overripe and rotting produce at him, had jeered and chased him first off stage and then out of the inn itself. He'd been assailed by a rain of stale rolls, soft, browning grapes, two mold riddled tomatoes, and even took an overripe plum to the chest before he'd been tossed out into the street. If it had been raining, he was certain he'd have landed squarely in a puddle.

Fortunately he'd been spared that, if nothing else, and his pride was tender after being forced out.

Duck had cut them off there, had put a stop to the degradation once Jaskier had been ejected from the party, before anyone got it in their head to continue tossing things at him. The wolf had scattered the lot of them with a truly haunting snarl. They'd paled collectively and promptly retreated back to their dingy little inn. Duck--stalwart, loyal, wondrous Duck--had joined him in the street and helped him pick himself up. It had rumbled and fussed at Jaskier's elbow, demanding affection that it wasn't desperately craving just to calm Jaskier's nerves. It helped him put his pack back together and then, when he had reassembled himself, Duck led their way out of town.

The wolf was the greatest gift Jaskier had ever received and not a day went by where he was not unabashedly grateful for its presence.

Jaskier had been traveling for several long, illuminating years with Duck at his hip. He had seen a myriad of other creatures, the strange and lovely shapes a soul could take when it was forged by its owner's heart. It never ceased to amaze him, the awesome and beautiful nature of these creatures that blessed the world, and he would revel in the sight of them. By that same token, however, he had seen so very many people who lacked a spiritual animal, who had never had one, who claimed they never wanted one, and who worried they might never acquire one. They had nothing and no one to watch over them. It was one of the greatest crimes of this world, harsher and crueler, than the most unkind turns of fate alone could ever manage.

He would have wept for all the poor lonesome souls if he thought it would help, if he thought they wouldn't castrate him for even expressing the sentiment aloud. 

The bard honestly didn't know what he would do without the great white wolf; the very idea of losing him was enough to make sorrow and worry bloom in his chest. But no--no, of course not, it would never happen--the very notion was positively ridiculous. Duck would never leave him, they were bound together by love and friendship, a bond so dear he had yet to forge a ballad that could truly honor it. Perish the very thought of becoming one of those poor, lonely souls. Cast it aside and let it be forgotten.

"And another thing--the people of Guleta have no respect for fashion!" Jaskier continued his rant. He had lost so much momentum by that point that his tirade had devolved into him just casually listing passing grievances. Duck didn't seem to mind that he was spouting inconsequential nonsense. No, the wolf was content to lie about, to sun its belly and neck on that warm river rock, and wholly ignore the bard while he very carefully tried to rescue his best doublet. It was a gradual, mindless task, trying to clean stains out of a fine silk. It was slow going, with only a bar of cheap oil soap and cold river-water, but he carried on.

He couldn't abide the thought of having to toss the garment out. It was truly a lovely scrap of clothing and he certainly didn't have the coin to just go out and replace it.

The morning passed into mid-morning as he worked, and then resigned itself to afternoon. It took a few hours to finally tease all of the wayward stains from his doublet, but he managed to restore it to its former glory. Sadly his efforts had reduced his fingers to wrinkled, soggy husks, useless for anything and everything until they dried out. He needed to wash the rest of his clothing still--his undershirt was a sweaty, mused mess and his leggings were in a truly sorry state--but the idea of spending any more time submerged in any amount of water was repugnant. Additional laundry and bathing could wait, just this once.

Jaskier flattened his doublet out on the riverbank, left it in the full afternoon sun to dry and meandered to join Duck.

The wolf was half asleep when Jaskier joined him. It huffed and cracked an eye open as Jaskier sat down beside the rock, reclining and letting the heat warm his lower back, but it didn't bother moving before he settled. Jaskier would never disrupt it when it was so obviously and disgustingly comfortable and Duck, well, it understood that it never needed to worry about any mischief while it was lazing drowsy and half aware. Once Jaskier was settled, he let out a dramatic, heaving sigh and stretched his arms high over his head. 

Duck took that to be a cue and, as he stretched, the wolf heaved a similar sigh and rolled so that its legs draped over Jaskier's shoulders and the bulk of it was propped against the back of his head and neck. All at once Jaskier was nearly engulfed in white fluff and he immediately broke into a fit of laughter. Duck snuffled as Jaskier tried to sort the fur around him into some reasonable arrangement, one that didn't threaten to suffocate him, and Duck rewarded his efforts by snuffling the top of his head while he worked. In only a few seconds the wolf had utterly disheveled him--it had ruined his hair with speed and skill.

True, it had already been ruined, but now it was set intentionally askew by the creature he loved most in this wide world.

"This is because I ignored you, isn't it? You know I have to do laundry and you hate being washed," Jaskier argued while laughing. Duck, ever the orator, replied with a wide, jaw-cracking yawn. It whined high and piercing right next to Jaskier's ear, but the bard forgave it. He would forgive it anything--he would even forgive the slimy drag of Duck's tongue as the wolf fondly lapped at the side of his head. "Oh cruel fate, am I to be devoured by this great beast? Whatever shall I do? Who shall save this poor wayward bard?"

Duck listened to his overblown lament, sung with as much melodrama as Jaskier could reasonably infuse, and let out a yipping little awoo to answer his questions. It licked Jaskier again and made a little half growl as it pressed the side of its open mouth against the bard's face. A threat, clearly, and one of the cruelest torments. Jaskier all but wailed with laughter as Duck forced him to suffer its terrible, lupine breath. It yipped, a sound caught between being playful and reproachful, and Jaskier shifted, rose up, and then flopped back over Duck's body.

The wolf was too large and he was too svelte for his weight to do more than inconvenience Duck. He had worried about it for a time but both of them enjoyed the game too much for Jaskier to start doubting his very best friend's strength. Whenever he played at fainting--or, more commonly: when he played at dying of utter heartbreak because his beloved Duck had decided to consume him rather than lead him to his one truest love--he would always collapse over the wolf. Jaskier would retire from this mortal coil, passing beyond in the arms of his precious Duck and would squish the wolf in the process. The white wolf, surly beast that it was, would make a show of huffing and protesting and wriggling itself free. Once it had managed to free itself (without hurting Jaskier in the process), Duck would then climb atop him and flop over, itself, as though they were playing a game of cards and whomever was on top at the end was the winner.

More often than not the wolf was the winner of this game, but that didn't make it any less fun to play.

On that day, when his white wolf had started the laborious and meandering task of shimmying its way freedom, it stopped and froze in place. Whether it had heard something in the brush or seen something dart between the trees, Jaskier had no idea--After all, to truly play at being deceased from heartbreak, one had to keep their eyes firmly closed. He was nothing if not a committed thespian--but Duck flipped over beneath him and, with a great surging leap, freed himself and jumped down from the rock. 

Jaskier's eyes flew open just as he was dumped, unceremoniously, onto his back. His head abruptly (and none-too-gently) dropped back against the rock and connected solidly enough that his hands flew up to cradle the back of his skull. He scrambled upright, head in his hands and a dull throbbing resounding behind his eyes, and he was nearly too late to spot the wolf. He twisted just in time to watch as the white wolf's racing sprint took it to the treeline. Its strides were wide and bounding, consuming earth like it was starving and hungered only for distance. Within mere moments it had vanished into the trees.

Jaskier started to call for the wolf but, by the time he had finished grimacing about his head, Duck had probably passed well out of hearing.

He sat there for a moment, stared at the trees, and waited. He waited in silence for a short while, then a few minutes, and then he lost track of time as his curiosity started to run away with him. After a goodly amount of time Jaskier let out a short, unhappy hum and rose from the rock. His head was tender but, thankfully, a headache never developed. He still prodded at it, because he could never resist poking at something that hurt him, but it was an easy injury to forget. He wondered, briefly, what had required such blistering speed but tried not to linger on the question too long.

Duck was a predator, after all.

It was, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the single best example of a wolf that Jaskier had ever seen. It was strong, fast, agile, and deadly, and this was hardly the first time it had ever sprinted out of sight in pursuit of prey. On more than one occasion the wolf had vanished and returned shortly thereafter with a brace of dead rabbits in its jaws or dragging a deer it had felled. The wolf was the reason Jaskier had never starved on the road, the reason he had never felt afraid of what lurked in the shadows, and he appreciated every hunt and patrol it ever went on. 

It always came back to him, of course, because it loved him.

Certainly, it would spend time out of his sight while stalking and killing, and Jaskier hardly minded that. He had the capacity to endure the sights of slaughter and bloodshed, he was not so foppish that witnessing violence could render him invalid, but that didn't mean he preferred to watch things die. His heart was too easily bruised to watch innocent creatures be messily killed, even if it was strong enough to then butcher and cook those selfsame creatures. Duck, of course, knew this about Jaskier. How could it not? No, it had spotted dinner and had bolted after it and Jaskier was glad of his wolf's ingenuity and skill. He was even more glad of its tact--watching something scream and die would truly dampen a lovely day.

Jaskier kept an idle ear out but left Duck to its own devices. His smile was easy and earnest as he set up their camp and found the best spot to unfurl his bedroll. The afternoon was warm and sunny and it didn't take him long at all to finish arranging their belongings for the night.

Once he had finished that, he took his lute from its case and carefully, meticulously tuned it. It was a precise task, one that tended to eat up time, and he was forced to devote his ears to it. He was a bit surprised by how far the sun had shifted when he was finished, and was even more surprised that Duck was still hunting.

With his lute tuned, he sorted and ground fresh ink on one of the river stones. He had needed to replenish his supplies and, honestly, this was as good a time as any. It was an easy chore and something that could be set aside without much fuss, perfect for when the wolf returned.

When the sun began to set, Jaskier abruptly realized he had forgotten to build a fire. In all the excitement and between all the distractions, it had slipped his mind entirely. Feeling quite foolish and glad that no one was there to witness him, he scrambled to dig a pit, gather kindling, leaves, and stack some acceptable deadwood. He managed to finish it all before the sun finally set, but he'd cut it much closer than he would have preferred. Fortunately, it was warm out and they wouldn't need the fire for warmth as much as cooking. When Duck returned with their dinner, there would be a cheerful campfire waiting for it and Jaskier would have no tasks to distract him. All of his attention could go to the wolf. He could scratch and comb and pet Duck all evening, which he would absolutely have to do since it was clearly bringing back a wayward steer that it had single-handedly bested.

(That or they were going to be eating bear.)

" _Oh, Melitele save me_ ," he droned in monotone that was positively dripping with sarcasm. "What a truly arduous task--being forced to pet and cuddle a vile, fluffy, terrifying beast all night with only a hot dinner to show for it? How will I endure?"

Silence.

There was nothing to hear his question and nothing to answer him.

He was talking to himself.

Jaskier cleared his throat and felt inexplicably embarrassed.

His cheeks and ears burned, a ridiculous reaction considering his penchant for talking at all times. He scowled at the fire as he tried to crush the feeling back but to no avail. He could feel his blush in the dark and he tried to ignore it. Talking was just a flight of fancy, a silly and, frankly, irresponsible indulgence--what a fool, how could he be so careless? What if Duck was hauling something dreadfully heavy and needed his help? That steer would require the both of them, of course, and he wouldn't have the wolf overexerting itself on his account. If he was yammering to himself, why, he might miss the wolf's yip or bark. 

Best to remain silent.

It was only until Duck came back, not very long at all. 

He would hardly notice.

Any moment the wolf would come bounding back and would level that flat, judging look at him. Fond little beast, it would scold him with that look and then but its head into his stomach until he gave in and pet it.

The fire certainly seemed loud, had he chosen the deadwood poorly?

He couldn't remember fires being this loud...though it wasn't half so loud as the droning of the river.

Jaskier watched one first and then the other.

Eventually the moon crept over the trees.

He strained, listening as hard as he could. When the fire finally burnt itself out he was glad for it--the blessed silence that yawned in its wake was a balm. True, he couldn't see in the dark, but it was warm out and the fire had been unbearably noisy and distracting. As time crept forward, Jaskier became more and more convinced that Duck needed him. He wanted to listen for his dear white wolf and he couldn't be expected to do that with a gods' damned bonfire crackling and popping all night. He didn't need to see, Duck would never have let anything dangerous stray nearby, and the wolf itself practically glowed under moonlight.

Yes, he would see it from a mile away. 

If he didn't hear it first.

He just needed to sit still and wait.

Duck would come back, it loved him. It would never leave his side. It loved him more than anything, of that Jaskier was certain.

Perhaps it just got lost? 

These river meadows all look the same, especially at night.

He waited.

And waited.

The coals all went dark and the last vestiges of the smoke tapered off into the night.

The river droned on.

"Duck." Jaskier said, his voice feeble and quiet, shrunk down to nearly nothing after long hours of deathly, cloying silence. He uttered the word and, all at once, felt as though a gaping chasm had opened beneath him. For a flicker of a second he thought he heard the wolf huffing but it didn't take him long to realize that he was hearing his own panicked breathing. His chest felt tight and the anxious energy in his limbs was sticky, like it had thickened his blood to a jelly. He was too nervous to even consider closing his eyes.

How could he sleep knowing Duck was out there? Alone?

The sun would rise soon, he could tell by the brackish grey that crept into the sky. When it was light enough to see he would gather his pack and travel west. That was where Duck had headed.

All his other plans and machinations were immediately cast aside. None of it mattered, not the songs, the inspiration, nor the fame. 

He had to find his wolf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't gotten around to explaining my logic for his wolf's name and I think it might be confusing to some people until I can. So, until I finish that part, I will leave this note up: I had thought it would be nice if the first thing a person heard when they met these little creatures was their soulmate's voice. This begs the question of what they were saying? Would it be like the trope where a person has a tattoo of their first words on their arm? Or would it be like the one where markings on one half show up on the other? 
> 
> I like the latter trope better so the first thing a person hears when they meet these creatures is what their soulmate says to the creature they meet. Geralt resisted naming the bird whatever Jaskier had said to the wolf...and Jaskier...being a child...perhaps....misheard what Geralt had said to the bird. No adult was going to question it or, if they did, they certainly wouldn't correct him.
> 
> So Duck it is.
> 
> It's a better name than it could have been.


	5. Wrong

Geralt wasn't wrong often. Being wrong meant being dead and so Geralt took great pains to act only when he was certain that he was correct. On the hunt, being right was usually a simple, black and white matter. Either something was or wasn't and there, was or wasn't what he expected, or was or wasn't dead. There was very rarely any in-between. People complicated matters; they made situations more tiresome and difficult than they truly needed to be...but he usually managed to err on the side of what he thought was right, if he had to choose at all. The worst was when he had to deal with magic--curses, blessings, bindings? Every single one of them generated a tangled mess of choices and consequences.

With magic, trying to determine what was right and what was wrong was like throwing darts while fall-down drunk.

He didn't like interacting with magic, even tangentially, because anything, any reaction, even no reaction, anything he chose to do had an equal chance of being right or wrong. It was gambling. It was infuriating.

That said, Geralt wasn't terribly angry with himself for his initial assessment of the little lark. He'd been unforgiving and cagey, even though the magic that spawned it wasn't unfamiliar. He'd been wrong and he could admit it without shame. How could he have ever guessed that the creature would become more asset than liability? It did not inspire a great deal of confidence at first sight and it had taken a lot longer than he'd have guessed to figure out what it was good at. To guess what it might be useful for.

He acclimated to having it in his periphery quickly enough and once he had become used to it, once he had watched it for long enough, he began to understand how it thought. Not just what it thought, that it liked or disliked something, that it was afraid or angry or tired, those were easy. The real trick had been learning why it was afraid of certain trees or why it avoided mice but would willingly attempt to wrestle a rat into submission. Once he learned that, the bird became predictable, reliable even. Best yet, it's relative immortality meant that it was extremely keen on helping with tasks that might kill anything else. Once he'd learned how to communicate complex instructions, how to receive complex information back, then the little lark had become truly invaluable.

It had saved his life during the Striga hunt. 

After hours of fighting, of destroying that castle from the inside out, he'd been exhausted, battered, bruised, and his potions had worn off entirely. The injuries he'd suffered over the course of the night were numerous and debilitating, but he had managed to keep the Striga distracted until dawn. He'd succeeded at an impossible task. Against all odds, he'd saved the princess from the curse of her birth. He'd been so high on the success, on the catharsis it brought him, that when he crawled out of that fetid crypt and saw her, collapsed in a heap on the floor, he hadn't been nearly cautious enough.

He'd approached her thoughtlessly, foolishly, all too eager to put the long night behind him.

The little lark had swooped in front of him, fluttering down from the gaping hole in the ceiling, and he'd paused for it. Rather than land on Geralt as it was wont, as he expected it to, it landed on that girl. The lark set down on her bare hip with a trilling chirp--it jumped once, twice, then it bent and pecked at her. Geralt had no idea what it was doing, not until she jerked awake. 

She moved like a striking snake and her hands, deformed and with sharp, gnarled talons, cut through that bird as easily as his sword would have cut down a real one. It vanished, burst apart into mist, and she'd recoiled with a violent flinch. She'd scrambled away from him, desperate and terrified. Her heart raced so fast that it was only a minute or two before she fainted dead away.

Had the little lark not cut him off as he went to inspect the fallen princess, she would have probably carved a fist-sized chunk out of Geralt's throat. 

He didn't know if Triss would have found him, if she would have risked exploring the abandoned castle after finding the eviscerated man strung to the bed upstairs. If she'd lingered or delayed, if he'd been injured and left down here? Well, he wasn't so confident that he'd have walked out of Temeria.

When the little lark reformed, (because it always did, for some reason) Geralt let it have its fill of nuzzling him and doting over his cuts and scrapes. He even scratched its tiny head while he spoke with Triss about the girl and her potential mutations. The sorceress was equal parts amused and pitying which was... a fair reaction to seeing a Witcher indulging a soul creature. 

He would regret indulging it.

Eventually.

But, in the moment, he couldn't justify making it suffer. It wasn't the lark's fault that it was a pawn for uncaring fate. Geralt saw no reason to punish it for what it was.

There were already so many legitimate reasons to punish it.

"Stop that," Geralt said flatly and the little lark froze. 

It was a calm morning, the woods were as empty as any he'd ever traveled through, and Geralt had taken the time to oil his armor before they rode out. The lark sang to greet the morning, sang to wake up Roach, sang because it found a nice stick, and had started to sing about the little pebbles on the ground when it was interrupted by a shrill call from one of the real birds that lived in the trees. 

The lark had clearly come too close to the eagle owl's tree. Geralt understood that. He knew the lark understood that.

The cry the eagle owl let out was little more than a warning. The owl just wanted to be left alone but, as in everything, the little lark took its reaction as a personal affront and a challenge. It spent the next hour toying with the larger bird--it flew in quick, tricky little circles, pecked the larger bird from behind, flitted away, and did the same from the other direction. It bullied that owl, working it up into a avian fury, but the little lark was too fast and too smart for the owl to handle. It was a deeply unfair fight, if a fight was the right word.

Eventually, for some inexplicable reason, the lark got the idea that it would be fun to land on the large, predatory bird it had been mercilessly antagonizing. (Geralt couldn't imagine why it would have done it, otherwise, and he didn't waste much time trying to puzzle that mystery out.) The lark landed on the eagle owl's head, on its back, and was agile enough that it avoided being mauled while it clung to the owl's feathers.

Harassing the local wildlife was not a grand idea but, overall, it wasn't worth trying to stop the little bird from all its games. They'd been at it for a while, though, and the real bird was becoming increasingly erratic and distressed. It was time to stop before something unfortunate happened. Geralt had stepped in, metaphorically, and the little bird must have known it was in trouble. The stunned droop of its wings as he spoke was nearly worth a laugh.

The eagle owl, ruffled and nearly in a tantrum, whipped its head back to try and snap at the lark. It couldn't reach it but, with the lark still, it took the opportunity to shriek angrily and shake the little bird off of it. It beat its wings and twisted and, very quickly, the little blue tuft of feathers was dislodged. The lark tumbled a short distance and then fluttered back up, landing on the same branch as that owl. 

It twittered a melody that Geralt recognized as its challenging call. 

It was daring the eagle owl to either fight it or let it play and ride on its back.

It was unfortunate that the eagle owl was nowhere near clever enough to understand the exchange the lark was trying to have.

"What did I just say?" Geralt asked, his tone a little less patient, and turned his full attention upward. The eagle owl hissed at the lark and puffed up to thrice its original size. It snapped and lunged at the little bird, livid about its continued trespass in this particular tree, but equally unwilling to take flight and chase it down. The lark puffed itself up, as though it was readying itself for combat, but cast a glance back down at Geralt.

The Witcher was watching it and his expression must have been clear enough that the lark understood. It hesitated, if only for a moment, before finally relenting and abandoning both the tree and owl. Then, as though it had not just been tormenting a creature that could swallow it whole for the fuck of it, it flitted down and perched itself on Geralt's shoulder.

The look it gave him was all sweetness and composure. It tweeting brightly.

"You're a menace," Geralt told it and it endeavored to look innocent as he continued oiling his leather armor. Behind them, Roach let out a huff and scratched herself against the peeling bark of a tree.

It didn't take long for Geralt to finish caring for his armor. He debated polishing it clean and putting it on but, ideally, he knew he should let the oil dry before buffing off the excess. His armor wasn't in disrepair but leather, while tough and resistant to liquid, tended to soften and deform if the surface was scratched enough that water could breach it. He spent enough time scratching and scraping his armor, as well as being half drowned, that it was better to oil and wax it whenever he could. 

This was a peaceful forest, a mountain-range with very few settlements, and even fewer sightings of monsters. It was just a quiet late-summer day. Geralt was confident that if anything attacked him while his armor cured he could dispatch it without fuss. He wrapped his armor in his oilcloth and strapped it to Roach's saddle, alongside his swords and his bag. 

He was dressed down but couldn't find it in himself to complain. It was still summer, even if it had started to cool, and his armor was not especially pleasant to wear on bright summer days. Besides, he wouldn't be left without for very long, the oil would be dry tomorrow or the day after, at the latest.

"Come on, Roach, lets find you some water."

Geralt mounted his horse and urged her forward through the trees. She seemed to understand the sedate pace that was expected for today and, while she plodded on at her regular speed, she meandered here and there when she spotted something tasty or smelled something of note. Geralt allowed the wandering and, by midday, they came upon a shallow river.

The river was mostly dried out. The treeline sat far back from the actual water and the normal shore, all coarse sand and fine silt, was nowhere near the current waters' edge. From the sand, down the bank, and to the creek, the ground was all smoothed gravel and scattered rocks. In spring, the river probably swelled to three times its current size and depth. 

It was probably a lovely sight.

Even now, as autumn gradually crept up on the world, it wasn't a hideous sight to behold. There weren't any flowers growing in the silt, but the tender grasses that had sprouted when the river receded were still there. There were patches of wilting plants but, by in large, it was a long stretch of green meadow alongside a babbling brook. 

The little lark sang as they emerged from the forest into the open space around the river. It stretched its wings, flew high and fast, and Geralt saw no reason to call it back. He could hear it, distantly, as it sang and flew about, and that was enough. He knew where it was, even if he couldn't see it at the moment.

Geralt dismounted and took Roach's reins as they approached the gravel that made up the shore. It shifted underfoot but both he and Roach could walk atop it, so he didn't expect the area by the water to be much different. The mud beneath the stones had probably dried out during the peak of summer. It made for nice footing and a pleasant place to linger--when Roach had drank her fill, they'd even be able to ride up the riverside until they were forced to take the road up the hills.

The road to Posada was so rarely an enjoyable one, this was an unexpectedly pleasant turn of events.

Geralt had little talent for fishing--most of what he hunted in the water was inedible, even for a creature like him--but he took his line from Roach's saddlebags and gave it a try. There was a large, flat rock that sat just above the water. It was warm, bathed in sunlight, and looked too inviting for him to pass it up. He sat and cast his line while his horse refreshed itself.

Roach drank, dunked her head into the stream, pawed at the stones until she had made little furrows full of river water, and grazed the shoreline grass. Her playing and splashing in the water did little to help him catch a fish but it was entertaining to watch. When she retreated to eat he paid closer attention to the water and the spot where his line met the surface. Between the comfortable, slightly searing heat of the rock and the susurrus of the stream, Geralt fell into a nearly meditative daze.

It was a foolish error, especially while he was without his armor and while Roach had his weapons. 

If he hadn't relaxed in the middle of nowhere, he would have noticed when the little bird stopped singing. He would have watched it dart to the shore and start picking noisily at things. He wouldn't have wasted time fishing for nothing when something actually required his attention.

The bird startled him out of his comfortable daze. It dove in front of his face, chirped sharply, and started biting at his hair. He recoiled a bit as it harassed him, demanding his attention, and watched it as it broke away from him and fluttered just downstream. He didn't stand, not right away, not until the little lark landed and grabbed some large piece of murky--what was that?

"What do you have?" Geralt asked and drew his line back, coiling it as he stood. The sun had shifted since they arrived and Roach was curled in the soft grass and sand with her legs mostly beneath her. Had she been napping?

He let out an unhappy hum as he realized he'd lost track of time.

The bird tried to fly up but whatever it had in its little beak was too heavy and as soon as it tried to haul it up, the weight of the dark mass dragged it sharply down. It hit the ground, splashed in the water, and Geralt moved a little faster. It probably couldn't hurt itself, but that didn't mean he wanted to see it try.

At first he wasn't sure what he was looking at. It was an amorphous shape in dark blue where the river water had bunched it up and soaked it. The parts of it that extended out of the water were lighter but coated in ringed layers of white dust? He bent and fished the tangled mass out of the river and, at once, realized it was fabric.

It was very expensive fabric.

And if the smell was anything to go on, it had been washed very recently. It had the edge of lye and safflower oil on it--expensive soap then--and a pleasant haze of lavender and sage lingered under the layer of river mud. He used both hands to stretch the garment open--it was a doublet for someone about half Geralt's size. Under the mud it had goldwork details and bright red and yellow insets.

Fuck.

This wasn't just very expensive fabric, this was a very expensive piece of clothing. It was the sort of thing nobility wore when traveling. It was very much _not_ the sort of garment that thieves would leave after mugging some unfortunate soul. 

Geralt scowled at the doublet and sighed as he slung it over his shoulder. He looked down the river, searching the water's edge for any shapes or colors that didn't belong. When he failed to spot any additional valuables, or any severed noble body-parts, he turned his attention to the meadow around him. The little lark called out and landed on the edge of a shallow pit filled with cold ash.

"Someone was camping here?" He asked and while he neither needed nor expected an answer, the lark gave him a very emphatic one. It hopped and fluttered around, chasing some signs that Geralt couldn't see. Eventually, it led him to the space where the sandy spring shore gave way to scrub and tall, brown grass. It gripped and scrambled against something but, once again, was far too small to lift it.

"A book?"

That was confusing and not strictly in keeping with his current macabre theory about the doublet. He picked it up--it was no bigger than his palm, bound in leather with an edge that had been illustrated. Whoever owned this had either had money or artistic talent and time. He'd wager the former but, given the pristine state of this empty little book, he was beginning to wonder if he was right.

He whistled for Roach and stuffed both of the found objects into her saddlebags.


	6. Tracks

The items from the river didn't make any sense and the harder Geralt tried to assemble them, the less they seemed to fit together. 

His first assumption was that someone had caught a noble on the road or hunting and had killed them. It wasn't thieves because they hadn't taken the doublet and they'd left the book. He'd have guessed assassin but there was no stench of blood or death on either item. If the owner of the doublet had been bathing and set upon, there was no sign of either a struggle or sudden violence. The doublet wasn't torn or even damaged. It had just been left behind. 

If the river had been deeper, if the waters had come up to even his knee, he would have guessed that it was a _Rusalka_...but no, the river was too shallow for anything to live in it. The location was too remote for anything that hunted like a Rusalka did. 

It could have been a mage at work, kidnapping some distracted noble in the middle of undressing for a swim. That was plausible in the way that anything was plausible when he started guessing at the means and motivations of mages. But...if that was what had happened, if he'd been snatched up by a mage, how had that book landed so far from the water? Why wasn't the ground disturbed by even the most basic struggle?

Why was there a single set of footprints that led away from the river straight into the woods toward the mountains?

He didn't have enough information to even begin to investigate and it was frustrating. There had been a time where he'd have been able to ignore this, to assume someone had simply tossed that doublet into the river upstream and leave it at that. Unfortunately, he hadn't been that person in many years and the little lark was insistent bordering on obsessed.

It was worrying just how focused the bird was on this situation. 

It was a flighty, merry thing that was given to dramatics and indulgent to a fault. It was the sort of creature that liked to fly in backwards loops until it was too dizzy to land without tipping over. Single-minded urgency was extremely unusual for the little lark, and that was what Geralt was witnessing. He walked Roach behind him, followed the tracks, and that little bird scouted ahead with something like desperation.

The lark darted to and fro, moving across the odd, meandering lines the tracks made in straight, utilitarian swoops. It wasted no movement and barely bothered to expend time on circling or landing. It occasionally gripped a tree, as it searched for where the footprints rounded some outcropping of rock or fallen log, but it didn't linger long. It would scrape its claws or beak over seemingly random spots on stones or to try and tear free loose bits of bark. It pushed leaf off of a set of doubled back footprints and, at one point, dragged him a good distance from the tracks to show him a stick.

It was almost frenzied it was so emphatic that he pick the stick up, that he examine it or take it, that he didn't resist bending to look it over. It was a bigger stick than the lark usually brought him, about the length of his forearm and about half as thick, but it was otherwise utterly mundane. It had the barest edge of a scent to it but it was too faded and the woods were too breezy and open for Geralt to put a name to it. 

Once the little lark was certain he had seen and examined the stick, it dragged him back to the tracks and continued forward.

The sense of urgency that had overtaken the normally lax, mischievous creature put Geralt on edge and kept him there. He considered drinking a potion to help, but that was a complicated decision. It was still far too bright out to use something like Cat, and he couldn't guess what he might use otherwise. He had no idea what the lark was detecting as it combed the underbrush and lead them on this chase, and he no idea which sense he would need to enhance to detect those signs himself. Eventually, when they had been walking for the better part of an hour, Geralt drew his steel sword. There was no imminent danger but, with his nerves on edge and the tension of the lark's panic firmly settled over them, he felt calmer carrying it in hand.

That the little lark seemed to approve of his decision to arm himself was not terribly comforting.

It was late afternoon before it dawned on Geralt that the path they were tracing was more than just stilting and untethered, it was a crude and extremely wide spiral. _That_ , in and of itself, was enough to help him create a picture of the situation.

There was no struggle because the owner of the doublet _had_ abandoned it. The book was dropped and they hadn't the mind or the time to retrieve it--it was empty and thus of little value. They traveled on foot into the woods, moving slowly and circling outcroppings but dashing and hurrying through flat area. The tracks lingered in places where the stone made alcoves or where there were trees large enough to have a warren or burrow dug into the spaces between their roots.

They were searching, it was a search pattern they were walking--though, for what, Geralt could only guess. It was alive, whatever it was. No one walked a miles wide spiral to look for something inanimate.

He paused their search, a decision that made the lark object very loudly, and retrieved the doublet from the saddlebag. It had mostly dried but some dampness still clung to it. He swiped the mud off the face of it, knocked off the fine layer of dried silt, and held it to his nose. It smelled of wood ash, soap, whatever perfumes its owner favored (old, mostly washed out), plum, tomato, red wine--there. He shifted the fabric and drew a deep breath.

He could scent fear on a human at a distance--human emotion washed over them as it happened and bled out of their pores almost as quickly. The scent of emotion was so pervasive, especially in large crowds, that Geralt was sometimes surprised he ever smelled anything else. Happiness, sorrow, anger, jealousy, they each had an aspect to them that made them easy to pick out of a mix, but they weren't powerful scents on their own. They were unique, pungent in a way, but they weren't persistent. They faded quickly and they were almost never strong enough to cling to clothing.

This doublet, the one that stank of soap and had been abandoned to the water and mud of that creek? He could smell the panic clinging to it.

Had they been wearing it when they were panicking? No, then it wouldn't have had soap worked evenly throughout. If they'd been holding it, he would have a better idea of this person's smell. There was a lot of information on this garment, hiding in the fibers, but it had been very carefully washed. The soap covered everything but the smell of the river and a fine, cloying layer of panic, almost like a layer of dust atop everything.

At most, they had picked it up before they left it, if that. They hadn't put it on, for whatever reason, and they hadn't carried it with them. Either very brief contact was enough to leave a tangible layer of panic on the surface of this, or their panic had permeated the air so strongly that it had settled over the garment. While the latter was unlikely, he was inclined to believe it was possible--that the panic was thick and heady enough to survive being cast into running water was a testament to how strong the emotion had been.

"Hmmm," Geralt hummed and began to understand what the bird had been trying to point out. 

This person had been consumed by panic and worry. They were wealthy but had been forced to race into the woods. They were clever enough that they traveled in a methodical search pattern--a glance back at the tracks nearest to them made Geralt frown--but foolish enough that they weren't wearing heavy boots for traveling. They weren't at all equipped to travel in these or any woods and they weren't paying attention as they searched for....

A child?

It made sense. If a young child had run out here, their tracks would be easy to miss, even for someone like him. The ground was too hard for something small to leave much of a mark, even in haste. They were checking small alcoves, places where a scared child might hide or where an injured one might cower. The search area was huge, the first loop around had taken Geralt an hour or so. 

"Fuck, there's a lost noble and kid out here, isn't there?" Geralt asked and shot a look at the lark. It tittered and flitted, eager to keep following tracks. Geralt spared another moment and took a closer, more informed look at the woods around them. They weren't far from the river, they'd just completely the full loop, and now he knew what he was trying to see.

The tracks ahead of them curled in just slightly--off to the right, a short distance away, the first line of tracks curved away from the river and began the loop. There were a few signs that marked a path straight back to the river from here--broken branches in the underbrush, bits of bark disturbed from a tree here, another there, and all of them were between his knee and hip in height. 

He diverged from the tracks and left Roach and the bird to wait. He followed the straight line those low signs made, headed toward the center of the spiral and continued the path. It wasn't long before he spotted a handful of small footprints in the dust. There was a smell of something--old blood? It must have been much stronger when the prints were made. Amid the small footprints there was one very clear, very deep paw print in a small patch of loamy soil. The footprints went every which way and the person that made them didn't weigh enough for him to get a clear idea of which were first or last.

The paw print, unfortunately, that one was clear and obvious as a sigil etched in stone. There was a wolf, a large and heavy one, and that meant there was probably a pack. 

"So much for a pleasant ride to Posada," Geralt lamented and whistled for Roach to join him. The mare came trotting up and, at the sight of the cacophony of tracks, the little lark let out a tittering string of chirps.

"Quiet, little lark," Geralt ordered, his tone calm. They were hunting, now, and the lark understood.

This wasn't strictly his business, he was a monster hunter, a Witcher, and there were no monsters here...but he was in no hurry to get to Posada and he couldn't bring himself to abandon a panicked noble looking for a lost child, not when it seemed so very likely they would be devoured by wolves before dawn.

Maybe they'd be so grateful for his aid that they would pay him for his efforts.

If they spat and called him Butcher he could at least sell the doublet, guilt free, knowing that he hadn't let an idiot and a babe be savaged in the mountains.


	7. Composition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a forewarning there is a lot of graphic and maybe gross descriptions in the latter half of this. If that bothers you, please don't read. The next chapter is also very graphic but I will have an in character summary in the one that follow it. Skip ahead to Chapter 9 (when posted) if you dislike graphic descriptions of violence.

How was it that a man who walked everywhere could still feel overexertion as keenly as anyone else? Was it not reasonable to expect that his callouses were for more than just snagging and ruining expensive stockings? It was unfair is what it was. Surely he had earned some endurance by now, had toiled long enough to gain a better resistance to the outdoors. Surely there was some small amount of discomfort that he could shrug off like the rugged, well traveled fellow he imagined he resembled.

His feet ached. 

Well, more than ached. His feet had moved well beyond the pain of blisters, or the sharp, grating splintery sensation of wearing the thin skin of his toes raw. He had passed into the realm of bruising and bone-deep hurt that resounded with every step. He'd been walking since his eyes could make out the difference between a shadow that was a tree the shadow that was the ground. 

There was a surprising amount of crossover between those two distinct types of shadows, a fact that had frustrated his attempts when he couldn't sit around any longer and had finally set out. He'd tried to find his doublet and, just his luck, blue on grey next to moving water looked exactly like a fathomless black void. It was almost as if it were pitch dark in this forest at the edge of the world. Even the moon had been behind trees and illuminated precisely nothing of value. Sorting out which amorphous maybe a shape was a rock and which was a fifty oren doublet was a hopeless task and he couldn't bring himself to waste another second on something as inconsequential as _clothing_.

Duck needed him. 

If he could walk, he had to keep looking, no matter how long it took.

He'd tripped when he first entered the woods. Had dropped something from his pockets and hadn't had the patience to grope around in the dirt blindly in an attempt to find it. He'd already abandoned the doublet--what was a trinket or two? The only item of actual value that he carried on him was the lute and that was strapped firmly to his back.

He stumbled, fell, and dropped belongings several more times before the sky lightened enough that he could make out the fuzzy edges of rocks and trees. All of it was abandoned, he didn't care, he just walked and listened and looked for a gleaming white shape in the bleak, haunting forest.

Jaskier called for Duck at the beginning, shouted into the night, through cupped hands and unassisted. He called the wolf's name from when it was dark until the sun had risen above the trees and he'd made more than two full loops. He repeated it, softly, entreating, or sharply and desperately as he wound through the woods and overturned every stone and den he could spot. He was nearly chased down by several angry creatures as he searched--he narrowly avoided being clawed by a badger, was chased by angry groundhogs defending their warren, evaded a growling, nasty looking hare--but he kept on. He was on a mission.

He had wandered past so many things that Duck would have wanted to hunt, so many creatures it could have bolted out here to catch. Each little (and not so little) prey animal that he passed, whole and hale, was more weight settled on his shoulders. Why hadn't Duck caught any of them? Was there something better? Something that warranted chasing it all night? Jaskier couldn't understand why the wolf had run off, why it hadn't come back, or what had caused it to dart into the woods like an arrow.

"Duck! Please come out!" Jaskier begged, his desperation vacillating from frantic to subdued and determined. Right now he was closer to frantic than anything else--he could hear it in his own voice, in the manic edge of the echoes that bounced back at him when he shouted.

Mid-morning came and went with no sightings of the great white wolf. He had completed four circuits of the winding search and he was losing his voice--damn these trees. His voice was made for indoors, for parties, for intimate gatherings, not for constant and sustained hollering at the top of his lungs. He could shout as loudly as he was capable of and it would only carry a short distance. The woods were designed to thwart him personally, he was sure of it.

He hefted a stick, a perfect, balanced, smooth stick, and whistled into the silent and uncaring distance.

"If you come out now, I'll play games with you all day! I'll throw it until my arm goes numb!" Jaskier promised, and shook the stick that he held aloft. A moment later he threw it with all his might (which was not very much when it came right down to it) and it clattered some distance away. 

The stillness of the woods mocked him.

His bribery failed to summon Duck and only a soft echo of himself answered his cries. It was enough to bring a man to tears and, if he thought he could search worth half a damn while crying, he would have indulged himself. It was hard to be paralyzed with worry when wallowing in self-pity, after all, and after so many hours and a complete lack of sleep, he could truly use a break.

Jaskier carried on, walking and searching, moving in hopeless circles to be certain he hadn't missed anything, and his mood steadily dropped. By early afternoon his voice was reduced to a wheezing shell of its former glory. His throat hurt nearly as much as his feet and he hadn't found the barest hint of a clue as to where his beloved wolf had bounded off to.

There was a little gully of rocks and overhangs that interrupted the woods. His path had already taken him through it today and he'd scoured the area for anywhere large enough to shelter the wolf. Unless he was truly inept, Duck wasn't there. When he came upon that gully again, he let himself drop down and rest a moment. He needed to be out from under those trees, needed to hear sounds that weren't deadened by the close air between the trunks. He unslung his lute from his shoulder and leaned back against the most upright of the jutting granite forms. It wasn't very tall but it would do to relax against for a moment.

"What if Duck isn't even in this part of the forest?" Jaskier lamented aloud. 

He wasn't sure who he was asking--Melitele maybe? It wasn't her domain, really, but he couldn't think of a deity more likely to help him with this particular problem. He prayed briefly, exhaustedly, and then set his weary gaze on the woods and the rocky hills that rose up beyond the gully. 

Posada was that way--he was probably right next to the mountain road...not that it mattered. He had no intention of leaving this area without Duck, let alone traveling as far as Posada.

Jaskier huffed and drew his lute into his lap. His bare fingers strummed the strings idly, nails grazing them and, in turn, producing muddied half notes, soft around the edges and indistinct. It was a fair approximation of how he felt--miserable, malformed, forgettable, listless. He could go on...and was tempted to. Self pity was tempting, truly it was, but he found himself rapidly becoming too tired to engage in it.

Instead, Jaskier took a deep breath through his nose and adjusted his fingering. He had dropped the plectrum in the dark hours of the morning. It had been a lovely heirloom from his great aunt, mother of pearl with a truly gorgeous inlay of lapis lazuli. He'd have ground it to dust under his heel if it would return Duck to him. His thoughts lingered on that hypothetical exchange, envisioning it, as his fingers idly plucked at the strings. Without planning to he indulged in a slow, somber melody.

He played from a place of pure distraction, unfocused and barely alert. He wanted little more than noise to fill the space and simply allowed his fingers to arrange notes as they would. The whole exercise was half muscle memory and half improvisation. It wasn't a terrible, which was Destiny's way of spitting in his face, he expected. The tune was catchy, or it would have been if he played it faster, if he added some harmonies, or with words to counterbalance it.

A sharp spike of fury jolted Jaskier from his thoughts, breaking the focus he had accidentally fallen in to. On reflex he jerked back and tossed the lute away from himself, threw it as hard as he had thrown that stick, but Destiny was a cruel bitch today and the strap tangled around his elbow. The lute clattered in front of him, barely out of his lap, and Jaskier let out a frustrated sound. He glowered down at his hands, openly disgusted with them and their casual betrayal. He half expected them to spontaneously combust, he was so angry with himself. 

What was he doing? Was he _really_ composing at a time like this? Was he really going to try and earn his fame now?

With a song he wrote while his beloved wolf was _gods' knew where_ suffering and alone?

"What in the fuck is wrong with me?" He asked, miserable and sad, and dropped his face into his hands. 

He would have to get up, would have to check to make certain he didn't break his lute. His sadness ebbed away as he felt a wave of exhaustion sweep over himself. He couldn't be so very sad, so very angry, and so very, very tired all at once--something had to give in and he had absolutely no control over which it would be. Everything felt dull and Jaskier let out a long, shaky sigh before lifting his head.

He absolutely did not expect to look back up and find himself surrounded.

He had been so exhausted he could have passed out against that rock but the moment his eyes met the red pair before him, a spike of adrenaline the size of a broadsword ran him through. He leapt up, all but arcing his way into a jump from a full recline, like a startled cat. He scrambled back, up onto the rock behind him--it gave him, perhaps, six inches of height over his previous state--and hoisted his lute. He held it aloft, like a club, ready to defend himself against--

"What in _Melitele's_ name are you creatures?" he asked, horror creeping into his tone and making his hoarse voice high pitched and squeaky. If they were smart enough to understand him, the small horde was inconsiderate enough that none of them felt the need to reply.

They were twisted, ugly things that looked like someone had taken a rat and stretched it until it was a hunched, gangly monstrosity the size of a goat or a child. They had bony legs with ropey, veinous muscles that all tapered to almost laughably tiny bare feet. Their arms hung nearly to their knees and the long, grotesque claws--talons?--at the ends of their gnarled hands would have dragged on the ground if they slouched. Their ribs were all but exposed and, right where they ended, the creatures went concave save for the flabby stomachs that protruded from their gaunt, sickly frames. 

The worst part, by far, were their faces. Those faces would haunt him, he knew it. They had red solid looking eyes, like insects or snowmen--truly, he was ailing if that was the nearest comparison he could conjure--set into cavernous, sharp sockets. Their brow and nose and cheeks were all one smooth arc, like a river stone someone had jammed into a fleshy sack. Below their cheeks they had a wide maw with yellowed, needle-thin teeth. Whatever served as their jaw, it was well hidden behind sheets of flapping, distended flesh. It all but dripped downward, settling in red, blistering folds that cascaded down from its knobby spine until the whole amorphous mass melded into its chest.

They breathed in guzzling wheezes--they whistled sharply through their teeth as they inhaled and when they exhaled it carried the foul odor of carrion steeped in mildew. More than half of them were soaked in sticky, blighted ichor. Jaskier wasn't certain if it was more or less disturbing that most of the blood and fluids on them seemed to be old and coagulating.

There were ten of them, each looming alongside an outcropping of rock or wheezing from where they stood, blocking his escape back into the woods. How they had snuck up on him he hadn't the faintest idea. (True, he hadn't really been listening very hard, but he assumed he would have heard just under a dozen sets of tiny, scurrying footfalls on the approach.) They waited, grotesque and threatening and all their beady, uncanny eyes were locked dead ahead onto him.

Jaskier stared back, his lute held aloft and ready to swing, and there was a long stretch of stillness. (He knew it was mocking him, he fucking knew it.) They were waiting for him to flee and he was waiting for them to strike and the longer he stared the uglier these things became. Some of them looked like they had recently plunged their whole arm and head into a bloated corpse. One of them had half a dead rabbit just jammed up betwixt its many neck flaps. One of them had a double row of punctures across its ribs and looked like it had been kicked by the wrong end of a draft horse.

_Wait--_

Jaskier's attention narrowed on that one creature. The truly bedraggled one. More than half of that creature was covered in blood. Most of the blood it wore was fresh and, if the puffy, leaking wounds studded across it were any indication, a good portion of that blood was its own. He stared at those wounds, at the dark, cruel bruises that spread from the wide, flat punctures like ripples in a pond, and he felt his chest tighten. Jaskier's heart was in his throat.

That was a bite wound. 

It was massive, terrible, and that little shit had been shaken violently after it had been caught between a set of large, powerful jaws. Was this gully a straight path from the river? Was this where Duck had gone? Had it seen these creatures skulking about and decided to end them for Jaskier's safety? Duck had done the same thing before, had it-

Had it failed?

Jaskier's eyes were hot and his vision blurred just so as tears tracked down his face. These were not tears of sorrow--these were tears of blind, unadulterated fury. These little parasite riddled rat gremlins were the reason his loyal wolf had left him--these things were what Duck had chased into the trees, what he had been trying to kill. How many more had there been when Duck found them? That one survived but _only just_ \--it had blood up to its shoulders on both arms. Had it run them through Duck? Was that Duck's blood? (Could Duck bleed?)

All at once, Jaskier's whole purpose in life became Killing. That. Fucking. Creature. In. Particular. He let out a shout--a mangled keening sound that struggled its way up from his core and gave the impression of someone being strangled to death. It was a fitting war-cry, he felt, given that he planned to wring that gremlin's neck--and dove forward, his blunt weapon swinging with all his weight and strength behind it. The creatures hissed but had clearly not expected him to dive into the fray.

He caught one of them and the sound of its skull hitting his lute was like an egg cracking on a stack of paper. The thin wood that formed the body of the lute buckled, denting and splintering where it connected, and he managed to knock the creature aside. Its head bounced off a jutting slab of granite with a wet, gruesome crunch. 

Jaskier felt a thrill of vindictive success surge through him.

Then he felt claws also surging through him. Namely straight though his leg.

Fuck.


	8. Hunt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has graphic descriptions of violence, combat, and gore.

It was nearly impossible to follow the smaller set of footprints, even with all of his skills.

The environment was working in direct opposition to him. The ground was too dry and compacted, the grass was still too healthy to remain bent, the breeze was too strong to leave scents, even the trees were still too healthy to drop leaves that could be broken by fleeing feet. Nothing that would give him a clear path was viable as a sign. He combed over all of it, over the prints on the occasional stones, over the bark where it had been knocked partially free, and nothing told him which way those little prints had ended up going. The afternoon was crawling onward and sunset was approaching, but waiting for night to fall just so he could use a potion or two was absurd. He was tracking people, it shouldn't have been this difficult.

Geralt hummed his displeasure and, after stalking the area around the paw print once more, he decided to take a gamble. 

He mounted Roach and glanced at the little bird perched in the branches above him. The little lark had the look of an anxious, worried pup and shuffled its weight back and forth while it waited for him to learn all that he could. It was impatient but behaving itself, and that was good. Geralt whistled a command to it and it perked right up. It didn't spare a moment leaping from that branch and flew off with a burst of speed more befitting a bird of prey than a little songbird. It went straight up, silent as anything, and vanished above the trees.

If it spotted their quarry, it would call back to him. It had done it before and this was far easier than hunting monsters in the dead of night. He listened idly for the bird as he urged Roach forward and over the tracks he'd been studying for the last hour.

He couldn't follow the small footprints, not through scrub and underbrush and hard packed earth, but the same could not be said of the wolf. The paw prints were irregular and far apart, separated by distance and viable only when they were pressed into softer soil, but it was enough to piece together a course. The wolf was large, and it was heavy enough that the marks it made were easily spotted. If he had guessed right, then there was a pack--if he came across their tracks, there might be enough remnant scent that he could hunt them down before night fell. He kicked Roach into a canter and rode off, tracing the trail of marks and wolf tracks as they went.

It was a simple, straightforward plan. Naturally, it couldn't stay simple or straightforward, nothing Geralt touched ever did. Roach slowed as they followed the prints--they were clear enough that he was certain they weren't missing a path. It definitely hadn't backtracked or turned around--every indentation went the same way, the weight of the wolf had pushed it forward without slowing...so why had it done this?

At first, the wolf had traveled straight, charging ahead with enough force to kick up grass and dirt in several places. It maintained course, for a time, and then it had veered sharply left, run a distance, turned almost entirely around, and crossed its own original path, only to do it all again. It was a strange, serpentine route that wove around large trees and cut in close by stones or logs blocking the way ahead. There weren't a myriad of prints, the ground wasn't damp or forgiving enough that every footfall of the wolf was captured, but the few prints he could find weren't close together. Either it had been going very slow and he misread how hard its paws dug into the earth, or it had been moving very fast and...winding back and forth?

It would have overtaken any child almost immediately after it left the sight of the shuffling prints, long before it had started changing directions. A swift adult wouldn't have been able to outrun a sprinting wolf for much longer, certainly not for long enough to explain the repeated changes of direction it had taken--it had been herding something.

Geralt brought Roach to a slow trot as the realization hit him. He twisted in his saddle to look behind them and his eyes traced the path they had just followed. The wolf had raced through these trees, had gone far faster than he and Roach had been, and it had brushed up against the trunks with loose bark. It had broken the branches of the underbrush and marked the stones where it cut close and grazed against them. It had been moving at speed and it was a great, heavy thing. All of the signs, the damage and disruption at hip height, could be explained away. 

No, not all of it--the ground hadn't been disrupted by any hard pivots. It hadn't slowed down but it hadn't slid or kicked up any dirt when it cornered around obstacles. That was impossible. Nothing real could move like that.

Geralt eyed the faint footprints on the forest floor as he considered the sharp, banking turns the wolf's prints made. The faint prints, when he could find them, were always clustered together but never numbered greater than five or six. In that first glade, he'd assumed they were moving back and forth, but they weren't heavy enough that he could pick out direction or the order in which they'd occurred. They read as someone darting quickly, shifting their weight from side to side, as if they belonged to a single person that was struggling to evade or fight off a beast...he'd read them as signs of struggle, then, when the only wolf tracks headed straight into them.

If the wolf had been herding something, though, and it had been moving fast, then the faint prints were far stranger than he'd first thought. The way they were clustered together well within the bounds of the wolf's herding course wasn't right.

No one, not even a Witcher, would have time to run back and forth with a wolf herding them. If they had truly been so turned around and terrified that they'd scrambled one way and then back the other, why hadn't the wolf taken advantage of their missteps and attacked? Why bother directing them and with wide, difficult serpentine curves when it was easier to go for the kill? There was no scent of blood here, no signs of a fight or attack. There were only the wolf's prints and the series of faint prints that lingered between the others.

There was more than one.

The faint tracks were similar, close enough in look, in size and shape and weight that they weren't distinguishable from one another--but if they belonged to more than one person, if there were multiple sets atop one another, running forward, trying to scatter, crossing over one another, then these made sense. If more than one person was fleeing from a large, fast predator and...being herded deeper into the forest?

What then?

The pack would close in for the kill? Maybe...but if that was the goal, why maneuver them this far? Where had all of these people come from? Was this a single noble traveling alone, on foot, with a half dozen children? Why weren't there more signs of the children themselves? Why didn't they have shoes? What was the purpose of driving people any appreciable distance? What value did that sort of strategy have for a wolf?

A distinct sinking feeling settled in Geralt's gut as he kicked Roach into an open gallop. For everything he learned, every clue he solved, another series of complications appeared. His search had gone from seeking one murdered noble, to locating both him and a child, to locating a cartload of children who had been herded into the woods by a huge, clever wolf? If he didn't know better (and he did) he would say it sounded like a children's story, a cautionary tale about wandering in the woods and witches who bake little boys and girls into pies. And he still had no fucking idea where that noble went or why they hadn't bothered to wear decent shoes.

Geralt growled in quiet frustration and Roach's ears flicked in agreement.

Following the herding path of the wolf was easier as they moved deeper into the forest. The thicker canopy meant more shade and more shade meant that the soil was softer and the sets of footprints were transformed from a confusing echo of events to a clear map. The largest loop of that search spiral didn't quite extend this far out, it was no wonder they had missed it earlier in the day. Geralt rode across the edge of the first footprints and into the deepest part of the woods, where they met with the very base of the mountain. The wolf's prints wove in and out, tightening the path the smaller tracks were allowed to take. The smaller prints had started to vary in depth--they were panicking and being forced to slow and sprint as they looked for a way to escape.

One set of the small prints moved faster, broke away and darted through the herding lines. The others followed it, gradually, but that one set made a bee-line for the craggy cliff-side and the escarpment of the eroding foothills. Geralt followed it and braced himself as he did. This chase was nearing its end and he still had no idea what he would find--the forest here was deathly still and silent, without even a bird call or a scurrying creature to ease the weight of the atmosphere. 

When he came around the hill to where it met the rocky cliff-side, Geralt found a wide, craggy passage. It was too narrow to be a cave, but it was similar enough that it could serve as one. The tracks all entered, faint, shallow and wolf. He dismounted Roach and drew his weapons before resigning himself and moving carefully between the rocky soil and the granite cliff. The wind shifted as he traveled through that narrow path, nearly too narrow for him to walk down it without shimmying, and the sudden shock of that breeze almost knocked him over.

The stench of blood and death was so thick the air felt semi-solid; Geralt choked on it, surprised but fundamentally unsurprised by the sudden turn. He steeled himself, lifted his sword, and moved forward with care. The path was winding and hidden in the crags of the foothills, but the stench intensified the farther he went. He assumed that once it reached saturation he would be at the end...and if that was the case, he was very near, indeed. He was correct, this time, and scowled as he neared the open space ahead--he could already see the hints of red high on the rocks. This would be truly gruesome.

Fuck. He really didn't want to see a dozen mauled children...but he had to. This was his purpose.

When the passage ended Geralt stepped out into an oblong hollow in the rock. The walls stretched high and drew away near the top, there was nothing to shield this space from above, even if it was a challenge to find on foot. The walls penned in the space and kept the air still and pungent. The walls were smooth from rainwater except where there were ragged holes cut into them. They were carved out with swiping claws, not human tools--burrows and holes covered nearly every surface here. Small mounds had been built around a few, packed and pressed into shape with mud like a wasp's nest or a termite mound. At once Geralt felt a wash of relief and an equal measure of leery horror.

There were no children.

This was a _Nekker_ warren. This was a very large, very dense Nekker warren and he was standing right at the heart of it wearing no armor and armed with only a single silver sword.

Fortunately or unfortunately, his initial assumption about this place was still mostly correct. The stench of blood was thick for a reason.

It was impossible to glean the number of Nekkers that lived in this warren but, if Geralt had to guess, he would wager that it was probably about the same as the number of dismembered, savaged corpses that were strewn about the narrow enclosure. Every surface--rock, mud, sand, dirt--was drenched in a thick, fresh slurry of blood, bile, bone, and meat. The heavy paw prints appeared here and there, sunk into the ichor deep enough that it had pooled and filled the hollow, but Geralt couldn't imagine being able to pick out enough of those tracks to serve any purpose, not amid this degree of staggering carnage.

He stared for longer than he should have as he tried to wrap his mind around the scene and add it together with what he had connected before he arrived. Unfortunately it was challenging thinking of anything else when confronted with the remnants of a brutal slaughter.

It was difficult to believe that a wolf would have done this, that a wolf could have done this even if it had a mind to. This wasn't an attack carried out in defense, or for food, or a fight over territory. This was a calculated, intentional, and extremely thorough extermination.

There couldn't have been fewer than fifty Nekkers scattered around this place--there were probably more but Geralt was unwilling to start overturning piles of anything to check whether it was a solid mass of flesh or hollow architecture beneath. The creatures were vile, violent, and given to attacking and devouring travelers and stray villagers when their numbers were too great. This would have been a job for a few Witchers, all at once, but it was done. The Nekker hadn't just been killed, they'd been shredded and shaken apart, bone and sinew snapped and torn, muscles ripped and rent with tooth and claw. Not a single corpse was anything resembling intact, not one limb had survived without being crushed or broken. The blood was hours old and it had already started to congeal. It did so strangely, as blood does in large amounts, pooling and crusting and reeking of copper and violence. The longer he stared, the more baffled he felt.

It was one wolf.

There were not enough prints to suspect multiple wolves, no other prints had joined it _en route._

There had not been a child, never mind several. He had mistaken the prints of the Nekkers for something human on the hard-packed earth.

There were no Nekkers, not anymore, because of the one wolf that had somehow, for some reason, taken it upon itself to herd a party of the monsters back to their warren and then summarily slew everything it could find.

He was stunned...and far more confused than when he'd begun tracking this morning. There were too many factors to explain and now that he had answers he could discard quite a lot of them...but so many new questions had arisen. He was still left with the question of the doublet and the search spiral--

The Witcher wasn't given any more time to puzzle out the situation and, perhaps, that was for the best. The violence here would not be undone and he wouldn't even if he'd had the chance to. It was best he leave and, thankfully, he was called away by one of his two traveling companions. A bright, familiar song cut through the air above the warren and spared Geralt the burden of lingering in this place. He turned on his heel, moved swiftly through the narrow passage and mounted Roach. By the time they had ridden out of the deepest parts of the forest and back onto the stony foothills, the little lark called out again.

Which was a new problem, he realized.

It had been sent to find the child--the child that he had learned was actually a series of flesh-eating forest monsters--so what had it found instead? The wolf? No, it must have found the noble who had been searching. Whoever they were, they had trekked dangerously close to the Nekker warren in the process. It was possible they were lucky. There was a chance that Geralt would ride up, would come racing out of the forest, and would find nothing more than an inconvenienced fop from Novigrad reclining in the sunshine, awaiting rescue.

It was possible but deeply unlikely. If they were unlucky, any Nekker who weren't in the warren when it was purged would be returning--the lark whistled again, signaling urgency, and Geralt bit back a curse.

"Come on, Roach," Geralt said and kicked Roach into a gallop again. The horse took the instruction in stride, moving swiftly and surely over the rocky hillside and between the trees. It only took a few moments for Geralt and Roach to come bursting through the treeline and out onto the rocky hills at the base of the mountain. Freed from the trees he could hear the sounds of fighting. He was near to the area the lark was circling and Roach carried him up the hill as fast as she could.

Before the lark whistled again, Geralt crested the hill and spotted the first live Nekker he'd seen all day. He dismounted before Roach stopped, all but jumping from the horse, and brought his silver sword down across the Nekker's skull before it had even turned to face him. The scene beyond the fallen Nekker was the worst case scenario Geralt had imagined. There was a man, disheveled and dazed, bleeding heavily from a wound in his leg, propped up against a rock. In either hand he had two pieces of broken wood which had a number of lines strung from one to the other. Whatever it had been, the injured man was currently using it to garrote one of the Nekkers and had the creature stretched in front of him as a living shield. The other Nekker tried to lash out at him, to get around him--from the looks of it, several had clipped him but, overall, his strategy had been effective. The Nekker in his grip had more than a few fresh gashes across it.

His panicked, wide eyes tracked Roach as she slowed and then snapped to him over the rabble of Nekker. He looked terrified, hopeless, and near to passing out. Geralt didn't waste any time trying to communicate with him--platitudes and reassurances were less valuable than action.

He advanced on another of the monsters quickly, his sword swinging low and breezing through its torso with hardly a snag. It shrieked and gargled and something in that was enough to draw the attention of those in front of it. He caught another as it turned, buried his sword in its skull and had to use his boot to shove the corpse off the end of it. The body hit another of the creatures and collapsed atop it, slowing it down as it tried to scramble out from under the dead weight. The creatures were swarming, or were attempting to. There were six left standing and one of them was tangled, neck first in the grasp of the injured man. The Nekker who was nearest to him lunged, jumped for Geralt's neck and he was able to swing and part it from its head.

Three left free, one scrambling on the ground, one tangled in wire.

Two of the monsters dove at him, their long claws reaching and swiping as they lunged. They were fast and dangerous, more dangerous the more of them there were but that was a problem that was rapidly solving itself. Geralt caught one with his sword as he jerked to the side to try and dodge the other's claws. The Nekker he hit, he caught at an odd angle. The cut wasn't clean, though it did cleave two of its limbs free. Right arm and leg hit the ground--the rest of it did as well, but a moment or so later. The whole Nekker managed to graze him as it attacked. Its razor claws scraped across his stomach, left a few shallow cuts in their wake, but largely only succeeded in destroying his shirt. He swung down as it twisted to strike at him again and cleaved the creature in two.

The last Nekker managed to free itself faster than Geralt thought it would and it jumped onto his back, shrieking and snapping, its claws grabbing at his shoulders as it tried to line up a bite and rip out the side of the Witcher's neck. Geralt was able to flip it over his head, though it dragged it's claws against him as it flipped, and when it hit the ground he drove his blade down through its eye. It shrieked and flailed but a jerk of his sword and the crunch as it broke through to the other eye and the creature went limp.

The last Nekker was the one held in place by it's neck. When Geralt turned to deal with it, to rescue the man who had managed to trap it, he found both of them in a heap. The Nekker had one of the strung pieces of wood jammed up into the bottom of its skull from below and the other buried in its left eye. The man had slid down against the rock at his back and was breathing heavily as he stared, in abject shock, at the corpse in front of him. His trousers were the same color as the doublet...or they had been. Now one leg had been stained red from the thigh down. The other leg was covered in the various fluids that Nekkers exuded when cut open.

The battle had been short, one minute, maybe two, and then all at once it had ended. His whole day searching, all the questions that had arisen and been diverted or solved, came to an abrupt crashing halt. The gully was quiet and still, save for labored and heavy breathing. It was a jarring shift and it took Geralt a moment to recall that he was a very large stranger holding a very large sword that was now soaked to the hilt in blood.

He set the sword aside on the ground before he approached the dazed man. If the man noticed, it didn't show on his face. Geralt wasn't certain he was lucid still, but between the bloodloss and the shock of a Nekker attack, that was understandable. He was pale, disheveled, filthy, and the wound in his leg was still bleeding steadily enough that it was...worrisome. Geralt knelt next to him and it took a long moment before his mind caught up to the current happenings. He flinched hard and twisted until he was staring Geralt right in the face.

He was going to faint, the Witcher was sure of it. If not from all this, then certainly once he had processed Geralt's eyes and what they meant.

He broke eye contact and tried to turn, to look over his shoulder, but Geralt stopped him with a hand against his chest. The warren was back that way--that had to have been where this party came from. This fellow was just deeply unfortunate.

"That was the last of them," Geralt told him and his head whipped back around. The expression that broke over his face was multifaceted and complex, a combination of a slew of feelings all at once--Geralt had no idea how to read it. He'd never seen it before. His eyes were still glazed and his pallor hadn't improved as he calmed. Fuck, he was going to need a healer.

"My name is Geralt of Rivia," he said, calmly and clearly, and lowered his hand from the nobleman's chest. He swayed forward a bit, now that he didn't have anything pinning him back, but recovered quickly enough. He tried to speak, to respond to Geralt's introduction or give one in kind, but even the attempt was an ordeal--he wheezed, sucked in a deep breath, broke into a coughing fit, and his eyes began to water. He sputtered and struggled to force sound through his throat, an action that seemed openly painful--and that was an alarming symptom. What else had happened to him that Geralt hadn't sussed out? Was he poisoned? Had he been strangled as well? Nekker weren't usually venomous, were these mutated?

" _M--my--_ " 

His voice was high and pained. Geralt took pity on him and leaned in so that he wouldn't have to speak as loudly.

" _Where is my Duck?_ "


	9. Jaskier

The injured man fainted almost immediately.

Before Geralt could do anything more than stare blankly, stunned to silence by his question, the human was unconscious. The Witcher stared at him then, expression blank with disbelief. He stayed there for a solid minute before the lark swooped down and got his attention. It dove across his line of sight and perched itself on a mostly clean bit of rock next to the human. It whistled an uneasy, lilting tune and stared up at him.

"Hmmm," Geralt hummed back in reply, his temper kept in check only by the stench of blood and the fact that the fool was dead to the world (metaphorically). His hand clenched into a fist and released idly--once, twice--he took a deep, slow breath and held it as he closed his eyes. A moment later he let the breath out and tried not to clench his teeth.

"It was a duck."

Just the sentence--he couldnt--

"He was looking for a _duck._ "

It sounded almost too absurd to be true.

It was ridiculous, reckless, borderline suicidal...and exactly what a normal, unarmed, unarmored human would do if their beloved pet _duck_ was scared into the woods by Nekker. He hummed again, trying to contain the wash of irritation that was threatening to overtake him. A deep breath in, while not quite even enough to count as meditative, helped immeasurably. Unfortunately, the pause to center himself helped to remind him of just how much blood he was currently kneeling in. Geralt opened his eyes, stared hard at the unconscious man, and let out a heavy sigh as he pushed himself back to standing.

He hauled the man from the corpse filled gully and made camp a short distance away, nearer to where the foothills became mountain, where the road wound up toward Posada. He wasn't usually one to camp close to a road, it was risky given peoples' general feelings about Witchers. Now that he had an injured person with him, however, running into travelers would actually serve a valuable purpose. They weren't on the road, not entirely, he wasn't that desperate for aid. He was down from the road a bit, closer to the river, but they were near enough that he would hear anyone who started up the mountain road. The longer the injured man bled, the more concerned Geralt became. He hoped someone would be traveling by in the next few hours (if they were a healer or a mage, all the better), but he doubted they'd see anyone before midday tomorrow, if at all.

He was going to have to try to patch up the injured man's leg or, at the very least, staunch the bleeding until he could hand him off to someone who knew what they were doing.

This was a problem. He had no idea how to do that.

Geralt was skilled in a great many things--killing, stalking, swordplay, animal handling, alchemy--but healing? That was not a discipline he'd spent much time cultivating. He could patch himself up, usually, but he also recognized that there was a pretty stark difference between him (with his preternatural ability to recover from nearly anything) and literally any other creature that lived. It was entirely possible that he had no medical skill whatsoever and had just...never noticed because his body never really needed assistance when it came to recovery.

The myriad of claw-marks that had shredded his shirt and cut into his torso were already scabbed over and closing themselves.

He'd have been shocked if a single one scarred.

The wound in this man's thigh, however, that would _most certainly_ scar over...assuming he didn't bleed out in the night.

Geralt laid him out on a blanket--the ground was hard and rocky but there was nothing to do for that-- and used one of hsi smaller knives to slice open the length of the man's pant leg. He could have tried to save the garment, probably, but this was faster and, frankly, helped alleviate some of Geralt's irritation regarding the duck. Besides, there was no way these leggings would ever be truly recovered. At this point, they could serve as either kindling or rags and little else. Once he'd freed the human's leg, Geralt tore the dangling fabric free and used it to wipe the wound clean. 

If the injury had been on the Witcher's leg, he would have...maybe bothered dumping part of a potion on it? Probably he would have settled for tying a strip of cloth around his leg, but it would have taken him a day or so to be free of it, either way. It wasn't a simple scratch and that realization made Geralt feel a bit more sympathetic toward the unconscious man. A Nekker had clearly plunged all the talons of one hand directly into the flesh of his thigh. The wounds were deep stabs, all too close together for easy stitching. Which, he supposed, was a moot point given that Geralt didn't know how to sew stitches on normal humans.

If the man was lucky, the wounds would leave an ugly scar and he would walk with a limp for the rest of his life. Geralt was a bad judge of human ages but he looked young. It was a pity, really. Then again, if the human was unlucky, which he clearly was, that leg could get infected, an eventuality that would probably lead to it needing to be removed. That was a dramatic amputation, cutting off a limb that high up, and the thought was enough to make the Witcher grimace and consider his options.

There was precious little chance he'd be able to get the man to a healer before dark--while Geralt was more than capable of night travel, Roach was not, and he didn't relish the idea of hauling a bloodied, unconscious nobleman into a town in the middle of the night. (He wasn't even sure where the closest town was, apart from Posada, which was a day's ride up the mountain.) Admittedly, he didn't have much reputation left to tarnish, but he was certain that would handily ruin whatever remained. 

Geralt would have tossed his reputation away in a second if he honestly thought the man was at risk of bleeding to death, but that didn't mean he relished the idea. He wasn't creative, not really. He couldn't imagine what nickname they'd give him as they stoned him, but he was sure it would be dramatic. It would probably even rhyme. Angry mobs were inexplicably skilled when it came to cruel, memorable shouting and his dragging this man anywhere in the dead of night would be ample inspiration.

The little lark hovered as he pondered what to do, tweeting softly. It hopped along the ground, fluttered to Geralt's shoulder, hid in his hair, and let out quiet little sounds of distress. The bird occasionally worried over the people he helped, though it had been a while since it had last been this concerned. It was a brave little creature, but the sight of blood, of injuries had a way of making it shrink and fret. When it fluttered and landed on the human's face, hopping along his brow, Geralt had to shoo it away.

It wouldn't hurt him, couldn't really, but letting something stand on an unconscious person's face was...if nothing else...rude.

"What do humans do to stave off infection?" Geralt asked aloud and there was silence before Roach huffed at him. The answer was predictably unhelpful. He tried to recall the smells of the last healer he had been to--it had been nearly a decade ago...which was probably not a great starting point. The bases of their salves and remedies were similar to the potions he mixed--his were developed from their's, after all--and he knew that all of them could contain ingredients that were dangerous. There was a reason humans didn't just rub plants directly into their wounds, after all.

His potions were toxic to most things, animal or plant, and were far too potent for a normal human to survive a whole dose of any one of them. He knew what he would use if it were him, which bottles he would grab to keep his own symptoms at bay, and he ran the ingredients over in his mind. He had a bottle of _Kiss_. It would stop a Witcher from bleeding out even if a monster knocked a hole through him. It demanded White Gull, though, and at least four of the ingredients in _that_ were fatal to humans. He didn't have any _Swallow_ brewed, didn't usually need it, but the ingredients were more...forgiving.

Geralt didn't have any Drowner brain, but he was also fairly certain that would kill a human...if not drive them utterly insane...so perhaps that was for the best.

The other components, though, those he had. Celandine was innocuous enough that he could just...use more of it, right? It was used in human healing salves, that he was certain of. Every healer, apothecary, sorceress, or barkeep kept stocks of that herb, he never had to search for it. If he mixed it with the dwarven white spirit he had, he would be halfway to brewing a vial of Swallow. He wasn't entirely certain what the dwarven white spirit would do to that wound, but he'd seen a human drink it before and live. He was reasonably confident that a combination of herbs and alcohol wouldn't make the man worse.

The lark returned, tweeting tentatively, and Geralt realized he had been lost in thought. He'd spent the better part of ten minutes crouched, staring at the gradually weeping wound in this man's leg as he ran through possible alchemical solutions. The blood stain on the blanket beneath him was spreading faster than Geralt thought it would. It was becoming an imminent problem. 

He forgot how fast normal people bled.

He had one decent idea and no time to really entertain others so, in the end, he resigned himself to treating the wound with his own supplies. He flush the wound with the distilled spirit--an act that caused it to bubble white in an alarming way. It would have probably been blindingly painful if he'd been awake--and then packed the outside with as much celadine as he had on him. It was a few bundles worth and probably too much, but it was best to err on the side of caution. He applied a basic salve atop it all, it was an ingredient that he kept mixed but set aside. It had no ingredients added to it past what made it a spreadable mash. It wouldn't help with healing, but it would keep the celadine in place. He bound the wound when he was done, wrapped it in linen and tied it off, and that was it.

Geralt watched him for a time after he was done, waited to see if his leg would suddenly...change color, perhaps? Or start smoking? He had no idea what would happen if he'd guessed poorly. Fortunately, nothing happened and, after an hour, he still hadn't bled through the bandage. It was as good a sign as Geralt could hope for and he felt comfortable enough that he left the human alone a while. The human slept as Geralt tended to Roach, to his swords, and grudgingly polished the wet oil off his armor. His shirt was ruined so he cut it apart with his knife. The worse half was used for kindling and the other half rolled into new bandages.

He would have to find someone who would sell him a shirt.

It was lucky it was still summer.

The night passed peacefully; no travelers came anywhere near the mountain road and nothing larger than a hare came anywhere near their camp from the woods. The little lark was noisy, but that was a given. After Geralt had turned his attention to other tasks, it had taken to checking on the human every few minutes. It would fly to him, prod him in some way, and when it found him to be stable, would announce its assessment to Geralt and Roach with a short song. Roach was fully able to ignore the little lark and get some sleep, but the intervals at which the bird checked on the injured man were unpredictable and uncannily timed with the precise moment Geralt started to fall asleep.

If Geralt thought the bird could have possibly been doing it on purpose, he'd have been impressed, but he was sure it was just extremely poor timing.

At some point, despite the lark's efforts to keep him apprised of the situation, Geralt must have managed to actually doze. He had been sitting by the fire, leaning against a tree, with his eyes closed and, a moment later, he cracked his eyes open and the fire was out with only a few smoldering coals left. The sky had turned a pale grey above them and the little lark was--panicking?

The chirping was what had woken him. It was soft, alarmed, and had a desperate, raw edge that Geralt only heard when the little lark charged and attacked. The muffled sounds of flailed flapping reached him and, all at once, Geralt was utterly awake. He stood and stalked around the fire, eyes scanning the trees, then the ground--it took a moment to figure out where the bird was, it was so small and easy to miss.

The human was awake, he realized absently. He had rolled onto his side, had put his back to the fire, and had curled into himself on that blanket. Somehow, the man had caught the bird in the cage of his fingers. His hold was delicate and careful and he'd drawn the bird in to press it against his cheek. The little lark was trapped and squirming, trying to both break free of its captor and be quiet at the same time, while the human gently nuzzled it with his cheek. The human was silent but the bird fussed uncomfortably.

Upon realizing Geralt was awake, the Lark let out a miserable little whining tweet. It was desperate to be free and, frankly, Geralt didn't blame it. The injured man was absolutely drenched in sorrow and, if the red tracks on his face were any indication, he'd been weeping while cuddling the bird for a while. Being wept on was...probably not something birds enjoyed. It was an awkward scene, to say the least, and the man's eyes gradually tracked up to Geralt as he laid there, distraught and despondent.

At least he didn't seem feverish or pained so, at the very least, Geralt's treatment hadn't poisoned him.

"Let the bird go," Geralt said softly and his words hovered between entreating and commanding. He wasn't going to snap at the man, but the lark was Geralt's. He owed it to the creature to see that it wasn't tormented unduly. The man sniffed and, without further delay, opened his hands and permitted the lark its freedom. The lark seemed surprised that it had been so easily released and hesitated a moment before fluttering away and landing on Roach's sleeping head.

"Apologies," the man said. His voice was a hoarse, rasping mess; he sounded like he'd been gargling gravel. Considering he couldn't choke out a word a few hours ago, this was certainly an improvement, but it still seemed like speaking pained him. Geralt still didn't know what had happened to his throat but improvement meant that he might not have to ask.

Geralt hummed and fetched both the water skin and a bottle of white honey from his bag. Roach woke when he did and he gave the mare a fond pat on the nose before heading back to the fireside. When he returned, the man had moved to face the fire, sat up, and had drawn his good leg up so that he could lean forward against it. He took the water skin without any reservations but hesitated when Geralt offered him the bottle of white honey.

"Painkiller...sort of. It'll help," Geralt explained, at length, and a look of resignation washed over the man. He took the bottle, uncorked it, and threw it back with a casual indifference that was almost worrying. Everything about his expression and posture said that he would just accept whatever happened now, for good or ill.

Geralt appreciated that attitude, it was one he personally tried to maintain, but it seemed more macabre on someone else. It wasn't his place to criticize anyone's demeanor, though, so he settled for taking back the bottle and returning it to Roach's saddlebags. Roach huffed at him and he untied her so that she could wander a bit and eat her fill of grass.

"I should thank you," the man said after a few minutes and Geralt moved back to the spot he'd dozed off in. The white honey helped, but his voice was still rasping and rough. He drank his fill of water but didn't pass the skin back. He occupied his hands with it, instead, and Geralt tried not to stare at the nervous fidgeting that crept into the human across from him. "For the, what, three sequential rescues?"

"Two," Geralt corrected and broke away from their conversation to build up the fire again. He didn't need it, but the human across from him was already twitching. It wouldn't help the tension if Geralt just stared at him across a pit of dead ash.

"Seems unfair to count a crowd of rat-faced feral gremlins as one, but I'd also hate to owe someone a dozen life debts after knowing them a few hours. That's quite a commitment and I haven't even taken you to dinner yet," he continued and, despite himself, Geralt let out a snort of quiet laughter. Whether it was the absolute deadpan the man spoke in or the blasé recounting, he wasn't sure, but his objection was funny.

Who would have thought? The idiot nobleman he'd wasted a day tracking was funny.

The fire smoked and crackled back to life in the space between them. Geralt fanned it a bit and then let it burn low. The chill of the morning would vanish soon. The sky was already turning rosy and blue; when the sun rose it would warm everything quickly. Roach will have eaten her fill by mid-morning, and they could start on their way and leave these woods. 

"Your name is Geralt of Rivia?" the man asked and Geralt looked back up at him. He hummed an assent and the other man pressed his lips into a line, then bobbed his head. He didn't comment right away and that made Geralt nervous...but there was nothing for it. The human's mood was strange and hard to read--even the scent coming off him was muddy and convoluted. This human had far too many emotions all at once, they came off him in a meaningless haze of scent. At the moment, the only thing Geralt could scent on him was a lingering sense of sorrow.

"You're the Witcher, right? The Butcher of Blaviken?" he asked in that casual, resigned monotone and Geralt frowned. The man watched him but the only shift in his expression was a slight fall toward melancholia.

"I am."

He hated that name. He'd punched people for casually bringing it up before. If the situation had been different, he probably would have hit this man too. Well, at least he didn't have anything to throw at him, though Geralt found himself waiting for it anyway. He expected horror or revulsion to cross over the human's expression but, no, nothing. His expression just maintained. The haze of his emotions didn't shift much, a non-reaction to learning who he sat with, and he just bobbed his head again.

"I'd advise you to avoid the Law of Surprise as recompense," he said, nonchalant as anything, as he picked up a few twigs from the ground. He cracked a twig in two idly and tossed half of it into the fire. It burned away in an instant and Geralt hummed.

"As I am sure you've noticed, I am a man with an overabundance of unpleasant surprises. I assume, at some point in the past, I pissed in Destiny's ale...." The human's voice recovered as he spoke, as the honey numbed his throat, and found increased ease with each new word. He had a pleasant voice, one that dipped and rose with a sort of melodious quality. "Of course, I regret nothing. Destiny is a two-bit tart and I'd do it again."

For the second time in only a few minutes, he startled a laugh from Geralt. This time, the Witcher barely managed to contain it, sputtering a bit as his chest shook and a tight smile broke over his face. He hummed again, an easy sound that held a not inconsiderable amount of amusement, and continued to stare at the human across from him. The man looked a little happier, having startled a reaction from the Witcher. The space around his eyes seemed more relaxed, lighter, but that tang of sorrow was still thick on the air.

"Tell me your name and I'll consider us even," Geralt assured him and watched as he tossed another twig into the meager campfire. This one popped and crackled, but burned away with the same speed as the last. He looked up at Geralt and a slightly pained expression crossed his face, but he inclined his head and answered, anyway.

"Julian Alfred Pankratz, Professor of the Musical Arts at Oxenfurt University and...honestly, I'm not sure if I am currently the _Viscount de Lettenhove_. I doubt it. My father is a stubborn man with a truly outrageous work ethic; I doubt Death could talk him into taking time away from his post." He tossed another stick into the fire. "But all my close friends call me _Jaskier_...or they would, if my close friends could speak.

"In all fairness, most of my enemies call me Jaskier as well, but I'd really rather avoid having an infamous monster slayer as an enemy, if possible," Jaskier finished and Geralt huffed his lingering amusement. 

For all the signs and tracks and clues he'd read incorrectly, at least he'd been right once on that hunt. The man who had been wandering in the woods was, indeed, a nobleman and also, apparently, a musician. 

"That does explain what you were strangling that Nekker with," Geralt replied dryly and Jaskier's brows shot up.

" _Ew,_ " he declared, aghast, and a flash of offended disgust danced over his face. "They're called _Nekkers_ , of all things? A bit on the nose with that one, don't you think? We've already got to stare at those awful, danging curtains of neck flap--why would anyone want to highlight it? To make absolutely _certain_ we noticed?"

Geralt hummed a mild agreement and shrugged.

"I don't name them; I just kill them."

"Yes, that one I noticed. You are quite good at that, by the way," Jaskier said and his expression went speculative. He opened his mouth, drew a breath, closed it, and then pondered in silence. This human was an endless labyrinth of reactions and Geralt could only watch as they unfolded, one after the other, over him. It was like watching a building burn down--tragic but strangely fascinating. He looked back into the fire and, for a moment, they had silence. Jaskier's brows creased with thought and his expression flinched before settling back to some shade sorrow. He'd come all the way around again, from some hint of merriment to melancholia. How he had the energy for that, Geralt had no idea. 

"You--" his throat was tight as he tried to speak and his voice squeaked in an ungainly way. He paused, abruptly, and coughed into his fist before attempting to speak again.

"You-- _fuck, you're Geralt of Rivia_ ," he started again and his expression crumbled as he spoke. He dumped the remaining twigs into the fire and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. They rubbed hair and then fell away, dropping onto his knee and lap respectively. His whole face screwed up with sorrow and Geralt, honestly, had no idea how to read the situation. "Of course you were sure--you're _you_ \--I mean, sorry, I was--"

He was rambling and seemed to realize it. His heart was racing and suddenly anxiety eclipsed the tang of sorrow that poured off of him. The knee he had raised up bounced impatiently and his hands smoothed over his pants.

"You said something when you, you know, rode in like a knight in...well grubby leggings--sorry, not important, they're fine leggings--you said: 'That was the last of them?'" There was a thread of something fragile in his question, of something he was too afraid to ask. Geralt had no idea what it was, the thing he had abstained from speaking, and he wasn't even the least bit prepared to guess.

"I followed the tracks from the river back toward the lowlands," Geralt told him, deciding to just give him the whole account in lieu of a succinct answer. "They lead to a crag. I followed it and found the Nekker warren. It was a bit farther into the mountains than that gully. Found around fifty Nekker there, all of them were dead. There were no more coming."

He'd meant it as reassurance, both at the time and now, as he explained. Nekker were territorial, there wouldn't be another Warren for a league, at least. They didn't have to concern themselves with the idea of a hunting party of Nekker leaping out at them from the shadows. There were no monsters left to seek revenge or stalk them when they were vulnerable.

Jaskier was hard to interpret but the look that broke over his face, then, was not one that Geralt could have possibly predicted. The sun had finally risen over the trees and, almost as though he had timed it, the gold light spilled over their campsite and lit him up. He was awed--amazed at Geralt's spartan assessment, or maybe the number of dead Nekker? He wasn't horrified, though. He was impressed, delighted and thoroughly impressed.

Geralt would have corrected him, told him that he hadn't killed the Nekker, but Jaskier also exuded a keen sense of...pride? It curled a small, bittersweet smile on his face. It made him look almost impossibly fond, and Geralt was (once again) deeply confused. He had no idea what to do with that smile.

"I knew it," Jaskier said, nearly crowing with vindication. His sad smile curled up, tender and heartbroken all at once. "I _knew_ it!"

Geralt cocked a brow at him. He was at a total loss.

"My sweet, loyal, _wonderful_ Duck killed those beasts to protect me," Jaskier explained, his tone unbearably wistful. 

Geralt stared...because what else was there to do when confronted with a statement like that? He could correct him. The warren had absolutely not been cleared out by a duck. He could ask why, why did he have a duck with him? Did the duck often attack things at his behest? Who trained a duck to attack things? But, honestly, the less Geralt knew about this man's pet duck, the duck it brought on a journey through the woods, the better. He could tell him what he thought had happened, what the tracks and savagery implied but...what was the point of derailing his joy?

Jaskier looked much happier, now. The pride and wonder in his voice was a far cry from the crushing sadness he'd been stewing in earlier. He was _extremely_ wrong, but letting him be wrong had no consequences. It harmed no one and helped him. 

Geralt also suspected that telling a normal person about a startlingly clever, massive wolf with a penchant for gruesomely slaughtering scores of trapped creatures...might inspire an unfortunate level of hysterics.

He let it go and simply shrugged.

"They were all dead when I arrived, all except that party that attacked you," Geralt told him.

"Did you...see my Duck when you went to the--what did you call it? Warren?" 

Oh, that question was even more delicate and hopeful than the last. Geralt froze as he asked it. He didn't like hope, not like that--he didn't want to be responsible for crushing this man and, from the sounds of it, that's what the wrong answer would do. Geralt stared at the face across the fire, all lit in the gold light of dawn, waiting for an answer that would bring him some kind of closure...or that would inspire hope that...what? His duck had survived?

Fuck, for all Geralt knew, that duck might be wandering around the woods right now. It could fly; it would have had no trouble escaping any number of Nekker. 

Geralt was careful with his answer: "I didn't see much of anything in the warren that wasn't blood or a Nekker corpse. I don't know if your duck was there and I missed it, or not. Nekker are...extremely hard to combat when they're in large groups. Fifty is very large and I didn't see any tracks with blood on them _leaving_ the warren."

"Oh." Jaskier didn't seem surprised, but watching him deflate as his hopes were snuffed out was deeply uncomfortable. Whatever mild happiness he'd found in the last few minutes was promptly dashed and he tumbled head-first back into his sorrow. That was another full circuit of emotional reaction, Geralt was getting tired just watching him run these circles. The way Jaskier shifted and fidgeted, he probably had more questions--more questions about a duck that Geralt had never seen and knew exactly nothing about.

"Does your leg hurt?" Geralt asked, abruptly, and rose from his seat by the fire. Jaskier looked confused and a little startled by the sudden change in topic but shook his head. 

"Good. It's a long ride to Posada and you'll need a real healer for that. I'll get Roach and then we'll head out."

Jaskier nodded along as he spoke, agreed with his pronouncements and requests, but otherwise stewed in sorrow. He didn't move much, didn't watch things or react to loud noises. He stared into the distance and sighed. A lot. Constantly. For the whole time Geralt required to fetch and pack Roach's saddlebags. 

Geralt wanted him to stop and, fortunately, he did.

Unfortunately, the reason he stopped was his leg. The moment Geralt hauled him up and he tried to stand on it, he yelped in agony and collapsed. Geralt had to carry him if he wanted to move him anywhere at all. He had to carry him to the horse, had to help him up, and had to hold him in place while they rode because he couldn't tense one of his thighs. Roach wasn't entirely comfortable with carrying him and Geralt understood. She tolerated it and Geralt resolved to give her a treat when they reached Posada.

Geralt urged Roach into a trot and the change in the human was instant. Jaskier went from limp melancholia to dramatics and pained hissing the moment they started riding. Roach jostled him when she walked and each movement pulled on his wound. There was nothing for it--Jaskier was going to complain all the way to Posada.

It was going to be another long day.


	10. Phrases

Posada has an air of finality to it, Jaskier discovers. Not that it's a particularly terrifying place, rife with brigands or some such nonsense, no, no. It feels a bit like standing on a ledge. That is to say, a metaphorical ledge. It was littered with quite a number of actual, physical ledges that could be stood upon, but those were less charmingly poetic.

The cliff-straddling town of Posada is one of those liminal, impossible places that exist along the edge of civilization. The fields of Posada brushed against the very edge of the world--the wilderness beyond promised danger, adventure, and sights beyond the comprehension of mortal men.

All of that was lurking just on the horizon. 

Probably.

Jaskier would have written a song about it if he hadn't dropped or destroyed literally all of his belongings over the course of the last two days.

When he'd first thought about coming to Posada, the idea of the landscape, of the architecture, had seemed terrible inspiring. He'd been so very excited to experience the lovely mountain vistas, smell the heady updrafts of high altitude, to watch the grain sway below them in the valley and listen to the summer insects as they droned in the trees. He already had a romantic ballad half drafted, or he had, before--

No, he was not going to start weeping again. He already felt enough like a pathetic invalid, he didn't need to fan the flames of Geralt's irritation by transforming into a sobbing wreck and getting his drippings all over the horse.

Speaking of horses--it was a good-tempered creature. Its coat and mane were truly lovely. It even tolerated when Jaskier had to adjust and inadvertently kicked it in the side (which, by the way, he felt terrible about every time it happened). Unfortunately, he was not as fond of the rest of the journey as he was of their transportation.

It was a miserable slog, the travel up the mountain, made even worse by the tense silence of the man behind him. As if that weren't the most absolutely ridiculous sort of luck? Whether it was good or bad, Jaskier had yet to decide. How he had managed to trip over every stumbling block Destiny had ever arranged, he wasn't sure. In the same day he'd lost his best and dearest friend, had everything he'd owned destroyed or cast aside, had been severely injured in combat with the creatures his Duck had tried to save him from, and then he'd been saved by one of the most reviled monster hunters on the continent. It was quite a lot of drama for one day and, coming from a man who aspired to be a famous court bard, that was quite a weighty assessment.

He knew Geralt's name, of course, recognized it the moment he'd introduced himself.

People loved stories and, of all the genres and character archetypes, the most popular were always about terrible villains, about heroics against long odds, about monsters and mayhem, and about beautiful women. Geralt of Rivia and his Witcher associates were likely to crop up in any of those (though somewhat less frequently in the last category) and Jaskier had heard more stories and folktales than most. He listened to rumors for a living--one couldn't expect to become famous if they didn't know how to manipulate the rumor mill, after all--and the things he had heard about Witchers were truly beyond the pale.

The things that were said about Geralt of Rivia, in particular, were exceptionally pointed and graphic. 

Better than half of them were vicious lies, of course, even Jaskier knew not to take such things as the given, absolute truth. But, whomever had concocted the lies about Geralt had gone to quite a lot more trouble than was usual. The casual sort of exaggeration that developed in songs was easy to detect and was often heaped, generously, atop anyone of any merit. Whomever had authored the stories about Geralt had been an impressively vindictive, furious, and cruel individual. They'd accused him of some impressive atrocities and had a truly alarming amount of _extremely_ specific graphic details regarding each and every one of them.

They were ridiculous if you thought about them for a moment--of course he had never demanded babies as payment and then devoured them whole while vanishing into shadows. But it certainly painted a picture, didn't it?

Perhaps that was why they were so easy to believe. The first time one hears something horrible explained in graphic, excruciating detail, it does tend to stick in the mind.

Now, to be fair, some of them _could_ have been true--if Jaskier's luck held its current course, every single one could be true--but the longer he dealt with the man, the greater Jaskier's dilemma.

Geralt had saved his life. 

He'd saved it for no other reason than he had been in trouble and required saving.

If he hadn't ridden up and cut down nearly a dozen of those creatures, singlehandedly, Jaskier would have been cut into ribbons and devoured on the spot, of that he had no doubt. 

Geralt had engaged in some impressive heroics in the process of saving him.

He had been something to behold, jumping off that horse and swinging his great, huge flashing blade through the crowd of Nekker, taking them apart like they were nothing. It was a staggering sight, something out of a fairytale (albeit one of those terrifying gruesome ones from the south) and Jaskier had a hard time not picturing it when he let his mind drift. The whole scene was made even more impressive and memorable by the fact that Geralt of Rivia, Butcher of Blaviken, was _mind-bogglingly handsome_. That this feature had somehow been omitted from every single story about the man was both baffling and incredibly suspicious. 

It made him think that, just maybe, someone had it out for him.

Not to wax inappropriately poetic, but Jaskier was nothing if not an inappropriate poet and Geralt was, frankly, unfair. No one man should be entrusted with quite that much beauty, it wasn't fair to everyone else. The man had muscles upon his muscles, had a face like he was carved from the finest marble with hair to match, his eyes were practically gilded, and his voice, though lacking artful inflection, was as rough and hearty as one might expect when looking over the rest of him. He was equal parts utterly terrifying and stoic courtly mountain man. It was a very odd combination, but he wore it well.

Had he not been dressed in leather leggings and an old grey tunic, he'd have been the very _picture_ of a heroic knight come to save the day.

The fact that he'd eschewed the shirt altogether afterward was--ah, if only they had met under less dire circumstances.... Did...anyone meet Witchers under less than dire circumstances, actually?

In any case, the fact that he was the sum of all of his parts, and given to acts of daring rescue, was entirely at odds with literally everything else that had ever been said about the man. That had Jaskier at a loss.

Geralt had treated his leg. He hadn't just wrapped a tatty cloth around it and called it well and good, no, he'd gone to the extraordinary effort of trying to heal him. He'd packed Jaskier's thigh in some heavy smelling herb, had smeared it with salve, had even bandaged it carefully and thoroughly with a clean linen bandage. He'd put a blanket down for him. It was baffling.

Jaskier could have explained away the monster slaying as something inherent to his nature--after all what do Witchers do but slay monsters?--but the energy and time he had invested in those wounds? That was very odd. And then he'd carried him, he'd answered his questions with...well, alright, the man wasn't classically friendly. That was a fair criticism. He had three whole expressions and none of them were more than the tiniest shift from dead center--but that was beside the point. Geralt had been tactful and honest, even if it had crushed Jaskier's heart to a fine powder to hear it.

(He had needed to hear it, no matter how much it hurt, and he couldn't blame Geralt for being the messenger of terrible news. Knowing was better than wondering.)

Why, he'd even carried him and rode up the mountain with Jaskier sitting in front of him, held back against his bare chest--which at any other time, would be a situation to truly revel in, but he couldn't find the energy in him. It took far too much focus to avoid thinking of the loss he had suffered, he couldn't even enjoy being held against a ridiculously attractive horseman. No, Jaskier spent so much of that distance trying to come to terms with his world now, with the sacrifice his beloved white wolf had made, with the yawning, lonesome future that awaited him. The rippling pectorals were truly exceptional, scenic even, but they weren't enough to fill the chasm in his soul.

He would have sung a truly heart-rending ballad about it except he couldn't, because his lute and songbook were gone, and because no truly mournful song was ever sung _a capella_.

It was exhausting, this loop of woe and introspection. It would be a kindness to be able to wallow a while but, failing that, he would rather rather distract himself from the problems of now entirely. If he could absolutely delay contemplation until he could collapse and have a proper, satisfying breakdown, that would be ideal. This middle-ground, where he was forced to move forward to stay alive but given ample time to ponder the tragedies that had put him here? This was worse than the very angriest crowd of tin-eared yokels tossing rotten vegetables. 

Eventually, as they rode along the uppermost of the cliff roads, the one that would take them across the bridges and into Posada proper, Jaskier resolved to shove all of his suffocating sorrow down into the pit of his stomach. It could wait there, sit and fester, until he could deal with it. For now, he let himself wonder about his sudden, brooding traveling companion and his animal accompaniment.

"How did you manage to teach your bird to sing in phrases?" Jaskier asked and, despite his legitimate curiosity, couldn't manage to sound anything other than tired. He grimaced in flashes as the horse's stride jostled his leg.

Geralt was silent for a time and Jaskier twisted to get a look at his face--ah, it was expression no .2: a carefully crafted look that blended both neutrality and the implied threat of potential violence over a bed of perfectly seasoned: _'Why are you talking?'_. Truly a classic, and executed by the true master of brooding non-expressions. The Witcher caught him staring and shook his head a bit, shifting those broad, statuesque shoulders as he did so. That wasn't even close to a dismissal and the bard blinked at him. The longer he waited, the more his confusion mounted.

"Can you not hear that?" he asked and held a hand aloft, gesturing at the little bluebird that had followed and circled them for the whole ride. It kept a remarkably even distance, diving back to check on them before wandering off, singing all the while. At first, Jaskier thought he'd been imagining it but, no, the bird had started the morning with some short bursts of warbling and each of those, it so happened, was a motif it reused as they traveled. It built layered complexity and sang in repeating phrases as it darted about. That Geralt was pretending he couldn't tell was insultingly transparent.

It was a darling creature, truly, even without taking its musical talents into account. It was small and spherical in the best possible way. It was a puff of cloud-soft feathers and music, colored like a clear mid-day sky. It hopped and flew and threw itself every which way to try and catch the Witcher's attention, swanning with more drama and theatrical effort than any swan Jaskier had ever seen. When it had the Witcher's eye it practically vibrated with delight--its little feathers even rippled and puffed up with the sheer joy of him.

That little bird absolutely adored him. It would have followed this giant slab of marble in a man-suit into the very depths of terror and destruction and it wouldn't have noticed the change in scenery.

Geralt hazarded half a glance upward and then looked down again, still wearing that same face.

"It's singing. It likes to sing," Geralt replied nonsensically and shrugged again.

Yes, and the rain just so happens to get things wet.

Was he being obtuse on purpose?

"What are you talking about?" Jaskier asked, finally conjuring enough energy to be properly aghast. Geralt, in response, adopted expression no. 3--a delicately angry shade atop a well balanced base of neutrality with, and this was key, a soupçon of grudging tolerance. He said nothing and, above them, the little bluebird wove two of this mornings leitmotifs into its song about the cliffside. If Jaskier heard it right, they were the two songs it sang about the grass and the horse's mane.

"Are you telling me you _didn't_ meticulously instruct that bird in musical theory?" Jaskier asked and, the very instant he finished the question, realized how patently ridiculous it was. Of course he hadn't. He had only known Geralt for a day and Jaskier already knew that the Witcher had never, not once, spent any amount of time training this bird to sing.

"It knows commands," Geralt replied, just the barest knife-edge of defensiveness in his tone. His answer was also, Jaskier noted, not actually an answer for any of the questions he'd asked so far.

"Yes, I imagine it does," Jaskier answered dryly. "You can teach a pig commands; that isn't what I am talking about. How did you teach that bird to sing in complementary, progressive snatches of song? I couldn't teach students to do that well and you've got a bluebird trained to improvise cohesive phrases with consistent thematic elements."

Geralt was silent for a while, clearly torn between his defensive anger and something else. His silent debate was beyond Jaskier to interpret but, after a moment or two, his expression reverted to the more relaxed of his three options (no. 2).He looked ahead as he thought, caught up in silence, and Jaskier waited (a bit impatiently) for an answer. Geralt hummed, as if that would content the impatient bard, but realized that tactic wouldn't suffice. When he did reply he sounded very uncomfortable:

"It's a lark," he said, sounding firm in this positively incorrect assessment.

Jaskier stared.

It was most certainly not a lark. Had he never seen a lark? Wait--it didn't matter. His ability to identify birds was not, in fact, the problem.

But, even as he waited, the silence persisted. Geralt considered that a complete answer.

"Oh, well, in that case I understand completely." Jaskier replied suddenly and Geralt started a bit. "This makes perfect sense and we shant speak another word about it," Jaskier continued, an easy smile settling on his face for a moment. 

Geralt looked him over with an uncertain eye, but Jaskier just shook his head as he turned to face forward again. His posture was ramrod straight, no matter how it hurt his leg to hold that, and he said not another word, as promised. The bird had been trained, somehow, by someone--it was probably magical or demonic, something that would cause the Witcher to resist speaking about it. Perhaps it was a mage who'd managed it--or the bird was a mage? Damn him and his inability to hold conversation. The bird was easily the most interesting topic that Jaskier could use to distract himself from the choking mass of depression coiled in his chest. But, of course, there was no exchange to be had, not a straight answer or conversational aside to be found--

"It's not real."

"Musical theory is absolutely real and that bird is employing it," Jaskier replied, more than a little waspishly. 

The bridge into Posada stretched before them and he watched, feeling terribly grim, as the buildings approached. He had no idea how long he would be stuck in this place once Geralt left him. He lacked money, lacked supplies, and lacked a lute to play to solve either of those problems. Would they heal him up and then eject him to die of exposure or would they see to his wounds and drive him out while they were still closing? It was hard to guess what was more likely but, in the end, the order of events wasn't really as concerning as the inevitability of self same events.

They'd been headed to Posada. He thought Duck would like the adventure, would like the view.

Admittedly, it was a lovely view.

"The bird. It's not a real bird," Geralt explained, spacing his sentences with a short sigh. 

What? What sort of claim was that? He wasn't imagining the little blue ball dipping ahead of the horse.

"What do you mean?" Jaskier asked, reduced to confusion once more. His attention returned to the Witcher and he was drawn out of his melancholy just long enough to be annoyed by the back and forth delay of their conversations. This appeared to be the perpetual state of affairs whilst speaking with Geralt of Rivia. It should have been more grating than it was, enduring this nonsense, but he found himself more curious than bothered. "Of course it's real, I've held it in my hands--" What would it possibly be if not an actual bird?

Idiot.

Oh, oh no.

He was an absolute fool.

Of course he knew what it was.

The realization stung sharply enough that the bard actually flinched as it hit him. He soured on that bird's singing so quickly it was actually a little shocking.

"Oh." 

Eloquent, truly some of his finest work. 

He let out a long, slow breath and tried to think of something to say, something that wasn't as bitter as he felt. His mind felt numb. He couldn't think of much that fit that bill. He would settle for something that didn't give ground to the sadness that was trying to twist his heart into a knot. He could manage that, probably.

"How lucky for you," Jaskier said and, sweet Melitele, he sounded so hollowed out that even Geralt's lack of inflection was a sonnet by comparison. Was this how the people with faded or vanished companion creatures felt? What a dreadful way to live.

Jaskier waited for Geralt to hum, to dismiss the conversation and let them lapse into silence again. It had happened a few dozen times already and Jaskier was getting good at predicting when he would refuse to respond. His horse finally stepped off the bridge and into Posada and they passed under the shadow of the cliffside. Oddly enough, the dismissal Jaskier was waiting for, the one that would spare him from acknowledging the mortifying nature of the situation? That never came. Geralt didn't give a noncommittal grunt or deliver a short, impersonal handful of words. No, in a truly shocking display, Geralt actually spoke with him.

Of course he would engage when discussing the one topic that Jaskier was doing his level best to avoid thinking about. 

Destiny really was a two-bit tart.

"I never expected to have one," Geralt admitted and sounded more sympathetic than Jaskier thought he could. He looked down the streets available to them and, somehow, he determined which direction would lead them to a healer. He nudged his mare back to a slow...walk. Whatever it was called when horses went at a reasonable walking pace. Then, carefully, he continued:

"I never did as a child. When I became a Witcher I...assumed the magic wouldn't work on me. Nothing else does."

Jaskier wanted to be bitter and petty about this, he was trying so hard to frame this as something less personal in his head. If he could pretend that Geralt was not sharing something like this, maybe he wouldn't have to confront his hurt, but it was a challenge and he was bad at lying to himself. Geralt actually sounded hesitant as he spoke. Fuck.

Jaskier had just lost his dearest companion, the creature he loved more than anything or anyone he knew in this world, but this reviled man...this Witcher had given up hope of true, fulfilling love when he'd taken up the task of protecting people. He'd willingly given up any notion of what Jaskier was trying so desperately to cling to. That love had found him, anyway, despite the myriad of hurdles in the way--that was...damn it all, that was touching, truly touching, and Jaskier had always been a romantic. Even though he was hurt and grieving, learning that even a Witcher could enjoy what he'd had with Duck?

That made everything a little less bleak.

"How long have you had it?" Jaskier asked quietly. It was an excruciatingly personal question--he wouldn't have been surprised if Geralt refused--

"Ten years," he said, as plain as all that, without even a the barest hesitation. "It causes trouble for me. It's distracting and bothersome...but it's been with me so long that I can't really remember what it was like before."

"Quieter, I'd wager," Jaskier cut in on reflex. Behind him, Geralt let out a silent laugh. If he hadn't been pressed against his chest, Jaskier would never have known.

"It's probably my..." Geralt started and trailed off, humming unhappily before beginning again. "The person who shaped it. I would guess it's their doing."

"What, that you have it at all?"

"That it sings like it does," Geralt clarified, oh so graciously, and Jaskier was quiet as he thought about the nature of that guess.

"I suppose that makes sense. It's odd--I know that they're all a reflection, that's the whole point of them, isn't it? To help you find your true love? To help you grow together even when you're apart?" Jaskier mused and Geralt went very still behind him. "But I could never remember that with Duck." Jaskier laughed and, oh, that was a sad sound. " _Duck_ was my companion, my dearest, steadfast friend. Even now I think of Duck as something wholly separate from..."

Jaskier shook his head and sighed.

"It will be hard to find the person who shaped him now that he's gone...I'd been so used to traveling with him, I'm not sure how to go about it without him with me...."

"Gone?" Geralt asked, his tone dramatically different from the soft, sharing voice he had just been using. The change was sudden and Jaskier wasn't certain what to make of it. Beneath them, his mare came to a halt. Jaskier twisted to look back at the Witcher and, wonder of wonders, Geralt was wearing a wholly new expression, quite unlike the ones Jaskier had already seen. True, it still had the signature conflicted strain to it, but it was neither angry nor neutral. He looked...daresay...shocked?

That was odd...but also curiously satisfying. He would have guessed that not much shocked a Witcher.

"Died in the woods. You recall, I'm sure; you protected me from the same creatures after they bested Duck," Jaskier said and gestured back the way they'd come. Geralt wasn't slow; where had he lost him?

Geralt's whole face screwed up with an impatient sort of skepticism and he just stared at Jaskier for, well, quite a long time. It was like he expected the bard was mocking him, like he was trying to glower with enough severity to force him to confess to his mischief and put an end to the charade. Jaskier stared back, though he managed to maintain a less accusatory countenance.

In a shocking result, Jaskier won their silent standoff. Geralt's expression relented and changed to something different but unreadable. Jaskier had been ready to ask what that was about, but--

"They can't die."

Huh.

That...

That was a very strange phenomenon. 

Jaskier had heard Geralt answer, had watched his mouth move and say, you know, words at him, but for some reason he couldn't hear anything else. Not a single thing in the whole world.

Geralt was still talking. Probably. Or else he was just making strange faces and opening and closing his mouth. 

Odd hobby, that, but Jaskier wasn't one to judge.

His chest hurt terribly, all of a sudden. 

Was it hot? It felt rather warm out.

And, in another curious turn, someone had decided to snuff out the sun. 

Terribly rude of them, that--


	11. Posada

Geralt had dealt with a great many people in his life. Jaskier was one of the most volatile and emotional people he had ever met.

He'd left well enough alone while they rode to Posada. They were forced into close quarter and he knew the rumors about Witchers, that they were diseased and the like, so he had tried to be as neutral a traveling partner as possible. Jaskier didn't have a choice but to rely on him, the least he could do was to try to make it less awkward.

He had given the human time to think, to recover from getting lost in the woods and attacked by monsters. He'd wondered why he'd been traveling alone, where he'd been going, but he'd resisted the urge to ask. He let Jaskier alone with his thoughts. It had seemed like the right thing to do, considering how prone to mood swings he was, but Geralt had been wrong. Something about the Witcher's extended silence had antagonized him. 

Then Jaskier had started asking questions about the little lark, questions that Geralt only understood in bits and pieces.

Geralt had never noticed that it sang oddly. It had a pretty song, that he knew, but the rest of what Jaskier asked was--even after Jaskier pointed out the strangeness and explained what it was doing, Geralt had a hard time hearing it. He had tried to explain why it was the way it was and Jaskier had taken his reply poorly. He'd gone from frustrated to bitter and angry in a moment. He didn't hide his distaste well, but Geralt had heard it before.

He was right to be surprised and the offense he took? Well, it was tiring but not unusual. A Witcher having a companion creature like that bird? Stable and persistent and fully independent? That was strange. 

It had been with him long enough that Geralt had forgotten how strange it really was.

He tried to ease the situation, tried explaining about it and how he had been just as shocked that it appeared, and it helped the mood just a little. Jaskier kept talking, because that seemed to be what he did, and Geralt was torn between ignoring the layers of thick emotion in his voice as he gave his wistful recollections, and interrupting him to ask if he'd misheard. 

The duck he'd been searching the woods for was a spirit creature? 

Jaskier had been traveling alone with nothing but a spirit creature to defend him? How far had he traveled? How had he even made it long enough to reach the woods, let alone get lost in them?

This melodramatic idiot had nearly gotten himself devoured by Nekker trying to find a magical creature by _walking in circles?_

The combination of all those questions and the answers that he knew were a lot to sort through. It was enough to make Geralt furious and, were it not for the degree of shattering heartache in Jaskier's voice as he went on, Geralt might've started in on the human. 

Impossible as it was, Jaskier didn't seem to know the first thing about how these creatures worked. 

All his dramatics, the sour stench of sorrow, the snapping and grief, were all over a spirit creature who had vanished and...Jaskier honestly had no idea that it would return.

He didn't snap at him, despite the danger he had put himself through, but he truly wanted to. Jaskier gave him a look of nearly childish confusion and Geralt corrected him. He'd been blunt but not unkind, at least he thought he hadn't been unkind. Unfortunately, he was probably wrong about that too, given how sharply Jaskier had reacted.

Geralt heard his heart skip a beat, and not in the pretty, metaphorical way. 

Jaskier had gone rigid and, the very instant he realized what he'd been told, all the air rushed from him and his heart stuttered in his chest. Geralt watched as he paled and started gulping air. He looked like a fish that had just been hauled out of water--even more so when his eyes drifted and he started listing to one side in the saddle. That was all the warning Geralt got before he swooned from the shock of it all. He tipped off Roach and Geralt nearly tumbled off the horse, himself, as he lunged to catch the man before his face hit the street.

Geralt tried to haul him back up but he was limp and the grip the Witcher had on his arm did not provide enough leverage to drag him back into the saddle. With some maneuvering, Geralt ended up standing in the street, holding Jaskier up by his shoulders, his back braced against Roach. He shook the man once, twice, and then gripped him by the chin to shake his head. He had jostled him with the hope that, well, he wasn't sure. He would wake up, he'd just fainted from the sudden shock of learning something that he should have already fucking known. He was fine, mostly. His heartbeat wasn't irregular, not after he'd passed out, but the way Geralt had been forced to wrestle him to keep him from smashing face-first into the dirt had aggravated his leg wound. Geralt could already see the bandage turning red. 

Jaskier didn't react as Geralt shook him so Geralt hummed and hefted him over his shoulder. He dangled awkwardly, his limbs were long and he was an unwieldy load to carry, but he didn't actually weigh much at all. Geralt considered draping him across Roach's saddle this way, like he might with a heavy pack, but they had nearly arrived at the healer.

He assumed it was the healer, at least. The building stank of herbs and remedies. He smelled it before they'd even finished crossing the bridge.

"Come on, Roach," Geralt said and Roach, even without him leading her, followed as he started walking. 

It wasn't hard to find the building. All the facades in Posada looked the same, just dull stone and wood covered in the tan dust that drifted in from the plains' side of the mountains. This particular facade had the same awning as all the others, but there were bundles of drying herbs dangling from the length of it. The door was half obscured, blocked by one of the riot of ceramic pots that sat out front. He looked at the plants, the myriad of herbs and flowers, and then looked back at Roach. She stood at his elbow and looked back at him, feigning disinterest very convincingly.

"Hmmm." His warning was mild, though, and Roach huffed.

Geralt hauled Jaskier to the door and pushed it open with his shoulder. It swung inward far more easily than the Witcher expected it would and hit the wall beside the threshold. A startled shout and the shattering of something ceramic welcomed him as he stepped, awkwardly, past the plants and into the building.

This was not a healer, he realized it as soon he looked over the shop. This was an apothecary.

Shit.

Geralt hoped that the apothecary knew more medicine than he did.

It was even more crowded inside than out--there wasn't a space on the walls that didn't have a box or jar or strange item in front of it. Every inch of the ceiling had some arrangement of herbs tied and dangling from it. The smell was already giving him a headache. He moved it to a round table in the center of the room, the only clear surface in sight, and leaned forward to deposit Jaskier across it. The man fell heavily on the table and it groaned under him but, luckily, didn't collapse.

"What--oh! I--what's going on?" 

Geralt was standing over Jaskier, watching the table with a critical eye, when the owner of the apothecary joined him. The man was small, frail, with greyish white hair and a large nose. He was clutching a broken jar in one hand and had the corresponding lid in the other. He looked at Jaskier first, alarm clear on his face, and then up at Geralt. He leaned away as he made eye contact, a thrill of fear running through him, but he didn't retreat.

That was something, at least.

"Can I--help---you?" he asked nervously, his voice raising in pitch near the end.

"Are you a healer?"

"Me?" the man asked, his bushy white brows rising as he looked, once again, at Jaskier. His gaze lingered on the bloody bandage a moment before he regarded the Witcher again. "If it...isn't severe, I could probably help, yes--but I'm not the healer. My wife is."

That was easy.

"Can we see your wife, then?" Geralt asked, glad to have this settled so quickly. He had no idea what Jaskier would do once he woke but he assumed it would probably be stupid and reckless. Best to make sure he wasn't injured when he did it.

The man's face fell.

Geralt sighed.

"My wife...she isn't here," he explained and Geralt listened, silently, as he always did when people began telling him things in that careful, gradual cadence. "She's been missing for a few days, ever since she went to help one of the farmers with a sprained knee."

Of course.

"What do you mean: missing?" Geralt asked and the apothecary, encouraged by his request, gave him a hopeful look and stepped up to the table to look Jaskier over. Geralt stepped aside and let him do as he would, examining Jaskier's wrist, taking his pulse, pushing up his eyelids one by one, then finally moving to look at the bandage.

"She traveled down there in the morning, it's not so terribly far a walk if you start early enough," he said. "The farmers have had problems with creatures in the fields, you see, that have been digging holes and stealing grain. Some of the farmers think it's a devil doing it, but I suspect it's groundhogs. 

"The farmer down there turned his ankle in one of those holes, ended up with a nasty bruise up his leg. Hit the ground hard when he fell, sprained his knee in the process. It was just terrible luck for him, and right when he should be tilling. My Alva, that is to say, my wife was helping him manage it." 

He peeled back Jaskier's bandage as he told his story. Geralt managed to avoid commenting during the duration of it and, instead, folded his arms and watched as he cut off the current dressing and leaned in close to squint at the wound. This man spoke and moved very slowly. It was a change from Jaskier with his tirelessly quick tongue and his whip-crack mood shifts. It should have been refreshing to have a bit of variety after that long ride, but this slow, dragging pace was somehow infinitely more irritating than being snapped at by a waspish nobleman.

"She traveled down there one morning?" Geralt prompted in an attempt to guide the story back to the relevant portion. The man looked back at him and nodded before returning his attention to Jaskier's leg.

"Yes, yes, she did. Usually, something like that, taking care of a knee, doesn't take so long. If she stayed to cook him a meal, which she might have done, she still should have been home by nightfall." The man frowned as he used a handkerchief to wipe away the herbs and salve Geralt had dressed Jaskier's leg with. "The farmer said she left in the middle of the afternoon, but she never came back. Nobody has seen her since they watched her walk off, not a single soul."

The man hummed and stood back up.

"I can help, I think, at least make sure it doesn't need cutting out later. He needs someone who can close that up, someone with a deft hand and nimble fingers that I just don't have anymore." He looked back at Geralt and his expression was sad and nervous in equal measure. Geralt already knew what was coming. The Witcher spared the both of them the time and effort it would have required for this man to get around to asking what everyone always asked.

"Will you help with him if I find out what happened to your wife?" Geralt asked and the apothecary lit up, his worry and fear melting into joy. He nodded emphatically.

"I surely will, and when she returns, I'm certain Alva will fix him right up--" he paused then, his bushy brows creasing as he looked from one side of the shop to the other.

"I can't keep him here, though, I haven't the space--oh! You can take him to the tavern, I know the owner there, man named Davin. He has a spare room he keeps empty and owes my wife a hundred orens at least." He motioned to Jaskier and, with very gradual, shaky steps began walking toward his front door. "I'll take you straight there and I'll make sure he doesn't argue--thank you, young man, I can't say how glad I am that you're here--"

It was all Geralt could do not to sigh.

He watched the apothecary make his way to the door and felt a sense of weary resignation settle over him. Geralt tossed Jaskier over his shoulder again and followed the old man outside. Roach had, unsurprisingly, devoured quite a few of the potted plants while Geralt had been listening to stories about farmers. She didn't look at all apologetic but followed along easily when Geralt took up her reins and started up the street.

The old apothecary didn't move quickly.

It took the better part of an hour to reach the tavern and then a good amount more for the old man to talk the tavern's owner into giving them his reserved room. By the time the old man was finished seeing to Jaskier's wound, the sun had already set. 

He did good work and seemed like an earnest sort, even if Geralt was impatient around him. The remedies he used looked considerably more legitimate than anything Geralt had considered employing, even if they weren't ideal or permanent. The Witcher didn't relish having to track a missing old woman as payment but, if the man had approached him asking for the same favor, Geralt knew he wouldn't have refused him. (He would have charged him for the service, of course. His shop had clearly been well stocked. He did good trade. But the exchange was still in Geralt's favor, even without the promise of coin, and that settled his discomfort a bit.)

The room at the tavern was, to Geralt's pleasant surprise, somewhat more substantial than a storage closet with a hammock strung across one wall. Posada, despite being out of the way, did a reasonable amount of trade and had a reasonable number of merchants who traveled through during the year. There were comforts in this room that Geralt would not have bothered to pay the extra coin for, were he given the choice. There was a single, rather large bed with a heavy blanket and a feather stuffed mattress. There were chairs, multiple tables, and a mirror and basin. There were even curtains. 

The tavern owner had put up quite a lot of resistance to giving them this room and, now that he'd seen it, Geralt could understand why. This tavern wasn't large. There were only three rooms and this was the nicest of the lot. It was the room the tavern owner kept empty, just for the wealthy merchants who came to Posada. 

The old apothecary wasn't a shrewd negotiator, but his wife was a popular woman. He had invoked his wife's name and all the fight had gone out of the owner. He put up a token effort, after that, arguing that Roach was extra, or that the Jaskier's bleeding would ruin the bedding, but he didn't pursue the potential coin with any real determination. He relented almost immediately once the old man told him that Geralt was going to ride his horse out to where she'd vanished and find her or die trying.

Which was absolutely not what Geralt had agreed to, but he let it go without comment. The exaggeration was bothersome but not worth the problems denying it would cause.

The news that Geralt was going to look for her, though, that went over much better than he expected. There had been more than a few men in the tavern, drinking and gambling and carousing, when they'd strolled in. Several of them had taken note of his medallion, of his eyes, and had grumbled unhappily while they stared. Geralt half expected them to stand and object to his presence until the apothecary announced Geralt's task to the owner. A hush fell over them. The room hadn't exactly become welcoming, but the grumbling had stopped right then and there.

Geralt never expected to be welcomed anywhere, it wasn't his lot in life, but grudging acceptance was certainly a nice surprise.

Jaskier was out through the whole of the exchange, through their entry to the room, and didn't flinch when Geralt propped him in one of the chairs. He muttered when Geralt moved a low table under his exposed leg, but it was nonsense. He'd wondered if the nobleman would stir when the apothecary started prodding the wound in his leg, but no. He had shifted around a bit and had made an array of unhappy sounds until the apothecary put something pungent and almost minty over the wounds. Then, as that settled into his skin, he'd reverted to limp, contented slumber.

Geralt had time to unpack and settle Roach while the apothecary worked. As usual, she seemed utterly unbothered by current events and was content with being brushed down, stroked, and fed. He found the little bird with her when he first came out and it followed him back in when he hauled in his equipment. It hovered and settled on his shoulder after that, staying nearby while Geralt purchased some thin stew and bread from the tavern owner. It sat nearer still when he returned to the room and ate some of it.

He'd purchased some for Jaskier, given that they hadn't eaten much of anything for at least a day and he couldn't fetch food himself, but when Geralt had returned he found him comfortably asleep in that chair. It had been a long time since he'd fainted and fallen off Roach. Had he been so exhausted he required several hours of sleep? Maybe he was like a small child and could just...go completely limp and nap when it suited him? 

The stew was fine but it would be inedible if it cooled and congealed. Geralt decided that it was worth trying to wake the human so he could eat.

He tried shaking him, first, and that did nothing. Jaskier's limbs and head dangled limply as he was jostled and his breathing remained even. He tried slapping Jaskier's face--gently--but that did nothing and Geralt wasn't willing to try hitting him harder. The apothecary had filled the water basin when he worked on Jaskier's leg. If that failed to rouse him, Geralt would eat Jaskier's portion of stew and deal with the man's hunger later.

He could have probably just splashed water on Jaskier's face, could have tried to be gentle about it, but given that he'd slept through being hauled around Posada and having his wound redressed, Geralt was fairly certain that half-measures wouldn't work. Instead, the Witcher took the basin and upended it over Jaskier's head. The chair he was sat in was wooden, the tavern was one story and, honestly, the floor needed a good scrub, so Geralt felt no guilt as the cold water connected and splashed across everything nearby.

Jaskier jolted upright in the chair, eyes wide and gasping as the water hit him. His face was the picture of blank shock for several seconds, his eyes glassy and a little dazed. He was still until he whipped his head around and spied Geralt. It seemed to take him another few seconds to remember who Geralt was, what had happened, and then he looked at their surroundings. His brow furrowed and his posture radiating uncertainty. He swayed just slightly in his chair, probably because he couldn't put much weight on his injured leg.

"What--where--" Jaskier went silent as he looked. He made a small, especially confused noise when he spotted the relatively luxurious bed and squinted hard at the bowl of hot stew on the table in front of him. "Um...Geralt..." he hazarded and looked back up at the Witcher. "Where are we?"

"Posada," Geralt answered and set the empty water basin back down. There were a few thin linen towels about, for wiping off a face or hands after washing. Geralt tossed one to Jaskier who caught it with an exceptionally clumsy grab.

"Posada," Jaskier repeated as he quickly wiped the water out of his eyes. Geralt could tell when he had finally finished waking, when he remembered their most recent conversation, because Jaskier froze in place with the towel still pressed to his face. His heart started racing and his hands fumbled before dropping the cloth into his lap. He looked up at Geralt, then, eyes wild and hopeful.

"You--did you--what you said--" Jaskier nearly stuttered, a dozen questions trying to jump out of his mouth at once. Geralt spared him the effort and took a seat in the other chair. He shoved the remaining bowl of stew at Jaskier and let out a short breath.

"Are you going to faint again?" Geralt asked him and Jaskier was briefly scandalized. His face twisted with outrage, mouth parting to object, and then he recalled that, yes, he had fainted into Geralt's arms. The color that rose in his face and ears was immediate and dramatic. His blush stained everything from his hairline to halfway down his neck a blotchy crimson and Geralt felt his lingering irritation ebb. Jaskier's embarrassment was as amusing as it was mollifying and the human tried to distract himself by picking up the bowl and shoving a spoon full of the stew into his mouth.

He succeeded in his attempt at distraction, though suddenly shoveling food into his mouth was not nearly as casual as he seemed to think it had been. He ate ravenously, devouring that bowl of stew like it was the best thing he'd ever had. Geralt didn't wait for him to finish or to answer before he started speaking. He knew what Jaskier was going to ask him even if he couldn't pick out the words.

"The spirit creatures can't die. They can't die because they're not alive. They're not real, they're all magic," Geralt explained, patiently, as one might to a child. Jaskier gave him an utterly withering look, one that said he didn't appreciate the tone the Witcher was employing, but its severity was undercut by the flaming blush that still sat on his cheeks.

"I _know_ they're magic, everyone knows that," Jaskier defended as he chewed. Despite his protest, he was so invested in listening that he nearly missed his mouth with the next spoonful.

"No--they're _made up_ of solid magic," Geralt continued and Jaskier did look a little surprised by that. "They don't have flesh, or bones, or bodies, not even the very solid ones."

The little bird on his shoulder decided that then was the ideal time to hop down and land on the table. While it had been happy to spend its time nestled against Geralt's neck as he wandered, it must have grown bored while the two talked. It tweeted at Jaskier once it had landed on the table and then decided that hopping through the pools of spilled water was more interesting than either of them.

"That little lark hunts with me," Geralt said and the bird tweeted back, as though Geralt had said its name.

"Yes...you said it knew commands." Jaskier was listening as attentively as Geralt had ever seen him listen, but he was clearly distracted. For some reason he wasn't thinking about who he was speaking with. Geralt stared a moment and gestured back at the bird.

"It hunts with _me_ ," he repeated and Jaskier finally seemed to grasp his meaning. His brows shot up and he swallowed the bite he'd been working on. Whether he was done or too enraptured to take another, Geralt didn't know, but he was silent and still as he considered the little bird.

That little puff of feathers and birdsong was something Geralt of Rivia, a Witcher, took to hunt monsters. It was a task so dangerous that even a mutant abomination like Geralt had to utilize alchemical concoctions and poisons to survive it. The myriad of scars littering his torso must have accentuated his point because Jaskier spent a solid minute or so looking back and forth between his bare chest and that bird. Jaskier set his empty bowl back on the table, then, and gave Geralt his whole, undivided attention.

"Oh," he said and waited. 

The color in his cheeks had finally begun to fade but the wonder in his expression persisted.

"They aren't always solid," Geralt continued and Jaskier, almost excitedly, cut back in:

"I remember seeing shifting ones when I was a boy! The kind that changed shape or turned clear and foggy. My parents' were little ghosts shaped like animals. I see them less now, but, well, that doesn't mean anything, right?"

"Not a mage," Geralt replied without any heat behind it. Geralt had more than a passing familiarity with magical nonsense, but the fine details? Those were beyond his ken. "I only know a little about them. I don't know why they do anything, just that they do it."

"Oh."

"That one is solid most of the time." Geralt gestured at the bird. "Magical monsters can hurt it more easily than the normal ones, but they can all hurt it if it isn't careful." 

It was not, nor had it ever been, a careful creature. 

"Every once in a while it will get slashed or cut or crushed in between something's jaws. There's nothing left behind when that happens, it just...ceases. But it has always come back, just like it was before, because it's not a living thing. It's ambient magic shaped into a creature. It just takes time to for enough to...condense, sort of, before it can manifest again."

Jaskier listened, rapt, as Geralt spoke. He stared at him with such absolute focus that was nearly uncomfortable. 

This was, oddly enough, the first time he'd seen the man invested and...he wasn't exactly happy but he was very much not _unhappy_. His blue eyes were wide and attentive, his face was relaxed--he looked younger when he wasn't wracked with sorrow or terror. Geralt still had no idea how old he was, but it was probably less than his first guess.

"How long does it take?" Jaskier's asked his question quickly, nearly in the same breath as Geralt's last sentence. He'd been slowly leaning forward as Geralt explained; he was almost vibrating with energy. The Witcher shrugged and gestured to the bird again.

"This one takes between one and four hours, usually," Geralt said and absently recalled the fight with the Striga. "Once it only took a few minutes, but there was a sorceress around for that. Don't know if that made it go faster and I didn't ask." 

It was not reasonable to expect that kind of speed normally--that was the message he was trying to communicate to Jaskier. He needed to temper his expectations, needed to be patient and not lose his mind with tearful dramatics while he waited. A duck was much bigger than a lark but, from what Geralt understood, it had been missing a while. It would be back soon, but the Witcher was hesitant to reassure him with anything resembling a timetable.

Jaskier, unfortunately, gleaned an entirely different message from Geralt's answer. Whatever tempered reaction Geralt had hoped for, he didn't get it. The moment he finished speaking, Jaskier's whole face lit up with a unabashed joy--the swell of his euphoria flooded the air in the room. It was strong and bright scent, one that Geralt was unaccustomed to--it nearly made his eyes water.

Swept up in the moment and without thinking, Jaskier tried to stand and round the table. Geralt had to lunge out of his own chair to catch the idiot when his leg gave out beneath him. The Witcher caught him under the arms before he collapsed onto the table and Jaskier did nothing to help correct the odd, ungainly angle they ended up at. No, Jaskier was so caught up in his joy that he was practically drunk on it. 

He laughed, a warm rolling chuckle, and then did the very last thing Geralt would have ever expected him to. Which, he was beginning to realize, was usually the first thing Jaskier would ever do.

He grabbed both sides of Geralt's head and, before the Witcher could guess what was going to happen, Jaskier's lips slanted over his and the human pressed a hard, utterly delighted kiss against his mouth. Geralt, startled by this enthusiastically bizarre turn of events, recoiled on instinct, but it didn't actually work. He still had the human held close to his chest and angled strangely, half sprawled from when he caught him. All Geralt really accomplished when he moved back was getting Jaskier into a more stable, upright position. A moment later, Jaskier pulled back just a scant inch or two, grinning like he couldn't stop. His hands gripped Geralt's face tightly, like he never actually planned on letting go.

"Hmm." 

Geralt's throaty hum was a sound of warning but Jaskier's smile didn't budge at all. 

That had been a stupid thing to do. To let himself get so caught up in a moment, to be so overwhelmed by emotion, that he nearly injured himself in the scramble to stand? Then to kiss a man he was more often irritated with than not? Jaskier had precisely no instinct for self-preservation and let his heart run away with him at the first chance it got. How this man had survived the world alone, he had no idea. 

Geralt stared back at him as he beamed merrily, eyes sparkling, a bare breath away from kissing the Witcher again.

"My dearest, wonderful Witcher," Jaskier proclaimed, his chest practically swelling with delight as he mostly dangled from Geralt's hold. "This is _thrice_ now that you've saved my wretched, miserable life! I was certain to perish from heartbreak and you-- _ooooh, you_ \--you have saved me from that ignoble fate. How has anyone ever mistaken you for anything but a dashing hero?"

His hands moved against the side of Geralt's face as he spoke. His fingers tensed energetically, like he was bracing to swing in and kiss him again. They relaxed a hearbeat later and smoothed over his cheeks and jaw, grazing all the uneven stubble that had grown over the last few days. Then, finally, they moved so that his fingers were wrapped around the sides of Geralt's neck. His hands rested just below Geralt's ears and his thumbs swept gentle arches across his cheekbones. 

While his hands roved Geralt's face, a whole host of expressions danced over Jaskier's. He gave Geralt a look of pure wonder, then delight, then deep, abiding gratitude, then a look of absolute adoration--The shift from one to the next was almost dizzying to watch.

Geralt stared at him, frozen in place, while Jaskier pawed him and gazed with uncomfortable intensity at his face.

How they had come to this, Geralt had no idea.

He had bought the man soup.

Had told him how the spirit creatures were functionally immortal.

Had dumped water over his head.

Fuck.

That apothecary had given him something, hadn't he? For the pain. 

That minty salve that had him relaxing.

He had slathered that on right before Geralt went to take care of Roach. That was why he hadn't been able to wake him. That was why he was clearly out of his mind right now, petting Geralt's unwashed, unshaven face with eager, unabashed wonder.

He was high off his tit.

Geralt sighed.

"Your...duck will come back to you soon, the only thing that could prevent it is if your--" Geralt shifted until one of his arms was wrapped around Jaskier's torso. He pulled him close, into a tight embrace that propped his chest against the human's...which did nothing to move Jaskier's face farther from his, but it did free one of his arms. He reached up and gently pried one of Jaskier's hands away from his face--the petting was distracting.

"If the person who shaped it dies, then there isn't anything to manifest. It's a simulacrum, a shape linked to a living thing. So long as it's linked, your duck will always reform."

He was pretty sure on that, he had certainly seen that bird destroyed more than a few times and it never seemed overly concerned about having died. 

Jaskier hand had moved from stroking his cheekbone to running across his brow. He pushed Geralt's hair back, out of his face, and smoothed his hand along his cheek before cupping his chin. Jaskier sighed wistfully and Geralt released his hand to reach up and remove the other. Jaskier, unfortunately, took that opportunity to put the first hand back on his jaw.

"Alright," Geralt said after a long moment as he considered what to do about this. He had just woken him, it seemed unlikely he would get the man back to sleep with any ease, but it was worth a try. "You need to sleep this off."

"Oh, yes, that's a good idea, are you joining me?" Jaskier asked, his smile saccharine and nearly besotted. His hands moved to Geralt's neck. There was no intent behind the path of his fingers, but this was rapidly becoming ridiculous.

"Sleep." Geralt repeated and Jaskier blinked slowly. Geralt leaned, so that he could lift the man with an arm beneath his knees, and Jaskier started as he did. His hands flew from Geralt's neck to his shoulders, gripping him with sudden horrified alarm.

"Geralt--we have to go back," he said, quickly, sharply and Geralt ignored him as he moved to the plush bed. "What if my Duck reforms and I'm not there?" The thread of desperate panic in his voice came out like a whine. Geralt set him down but, when he tried to stand back up, Jaskier's hands flew up and caught the sides of his face again. "We have to go back!"

"No. We don't," Geralt assured him but Jaskier took that statement as something cruel. He looked betrayed and withdrew his hands immediately. He looked like he might cry. How he felt so many things so fast, Geralt had no idea.

"It's magic and it's linked to you as well. It will manifest where you are."

"Oh," Jaskier mused, his expression going pleasant again, and he let out a little sigh. "That's good--I miss him, you know."

"Yes," Geralt agreed. "I know."

The bed must have been excruciatingly comfortable. As Jaskier settled, his loose limbs nearly sank into plush blanket and mattress. His eyes had started drooping the moment Geralt had let him go and, as he smiled up at the Witcher, his expression was dreamy and barely awake. 

"You'll like Duck," Jaskier told him, nodding just so and then promptly fell asleep.

Geralt stood back up and let out a heavy sigh as he stared down at Jaskier. He could not even begin to imagine who this idiot's soulmate was or what kind of manic waterfowl they'd inadvertently conjured, but it wasn't worth mulling over. If they ended up here for a while longer, Geralt would get to meet his duck and then, hopefully, Jaskier's moods would stabilize. Geralt spared a moment to clean himself up, undressed, and climbed into the other side of the bed without another word. Once he was settled, the little lark landed on his pillow and tucked itself against his neck. 

He closed his eyes and hoped that nothing else happened tonight, he needed the sleep.

Tomorrow he would have to go looking for a missing old woman.


	12. Fields

Geralt slept like the dead. 

Between the warm blanket, the indulgent mattress, and the little bird tucked against him, he had fallen into a sleep so deep that waking from it required actual, concerted effort. He stirred, limbs heavy and numb from so long without moving, and sucked in a deep, refreshing breath. There was some smell in the air, something light but not entirely unpleasant, and a twinge of something floral. 

He woke too slowly to realize what it was right away.

His eyelids weighed enough that they were almost sore as he forced them open. The ceiling above him was lit in streaming, morning light, and it wasn't long before his view was obstructed by a small, blue bird peering down at him. It stared with its dark eyes and turns its head. First it tilted this way, then that way, and it finally righted itself as it tweeted to greet him. He had to close one eye again as it rubbed its head against his eyelid.

"There! It did it again!"

The sudden introduction of words into Geralt's world snapped him awake, dragging him from the edge and preventing him from falling back asleep while the bird nudged at him. The bird, startled by the sudden noise, hopped and then braced against his forehead and took flight. It fluttered somewhere and landed with a light thump. Geralt had been willing to indulge it but, now that it was gone, he was able to finally sit up and start extricating himself from the mattress.

"Did what?" he grumbled, voice still hoarse with sleep. 

It was Jaskier who spoke, of that Geralt was certain, but when he spotted the man, sitting casually with a basin of steaming water, carefully drying his hair with a linen rag, he didn't recognize him immediately. Jaskier was, apparently, feeling much improved. 

The redness of his eyes, the shadows beneath them, the erratic tangle of his hair, all of that had been wiped away with a damp cloth and a good night's rest. Jaskier twisted where he was sat and looked back at Geralt. Geralt was still mussed and groggy from heavy slumber and probably looked terrible. Jaskier finished drying his hair and tossed the cloth onto the arm of his chair with a casual, disaffected ease that he hadn't shown any sign of possessing over the last two days. His smile was bright, friendly, and untainted by the host of ailing emotions that seemed to stalk him everywhere he went.

It was a dramatic shift and it took a moment to reconcile this Jaskier with the one he'd forced into bed the night before.

"The bluebird," Jaskier said and, off on the far table, the little bird gave another tweet. Jaskier gestured at it with a whole arm, his expression expectant, as if Geralt ought to know what he was pointing out. "It's singing a song, notes that signify specific things, and it keeps repeating them."

Geralt stared and, after a pause, pushed back the blankets and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

"And?" Geralt asked and stood. His limbs were still heavy, he stretched them and felt his lower back pop as he moved. Another twist and the tension in his neck released. Jaskier, despite being prompted to speak, had not launched into a tirade in several long seconds. Geralt looked over his shoulder at him, but the man whipped around as Geralt turned. Jaskier cleared his throat as he faced the far wall.

"Uh--it's impressive that the bird can remember so many notes," Jaskier clarified, at long last, and Geralt hummed in idle agreement. He did enjoy the songs that the little lark sang.

Now that he was standing, he ought to dress for the day...but seeing Jaskier looking so dramatically improved made Geralt wonder just how badly he needed to see to his own appearance. Geralt moved across the room and stood at the mirror a moment, taking in the state of himself. He had been through a series of exerting days in the wild and very much looked like it. Normally, he wouldn't have bothered with making himself look presentable _before_ going out on a job...but...he also realized that he might be spending a day or two afield while he looked for this old woman. Being presentable wasn't a requirement for that, but being comfortable was and he had no desire to feel quite so grimy for too long.

"I wonder if they have a tub here," Geralt mused at his reflection and reached to scratch at his stubble. He would have to shave eventually, but that required sharpening the knife for it first. He still had a smear of Nekker blood on his face.

He hummed in irritation but Jaskier spoke as he did, answering his musing question with uncommon eagerness.

"They do not!" Jaskier chirped helpfully, and Geralt heard his chair-legs scrape the ground. A thrill of panic went through Geralt then and he spun, ready to lunge and catch the idiot if he collapsed again, but found Jaskier standing (albeit very heavily leaning on his good leg) and smiling at him. He had a bar of soap and rag in hand. 

"I asked...or, rather, begged. Yes, that is a touch more accurate," Jaskier said and leaned his elbow on the chair at his side. He was making almost suspicious amounts of eye contact as he spoke and Geralt cocked a brow, but said nothing about it. This might be how he normally behaved for all Geralt knew, he'd never seen the man outside of a state of crisis. "But never fret, dear Witcher, I have a fresh bowl of nice hot water, a bar of fine lavender soap--courtesy of the lovely blonde barmaid, Siona--and some fresh bread and bacon that...might be a bit cold now, sorry, I had assumed you were the...get up at dawn and fight the sun type. Honestly, though, I cannot begin to blame you for luxuriating. It is a fantastic bed."

Jaskier grimaced a bit as he glanced back at the bacon on the table but, overall, seemed pretty proud of himself and happy to chat with Geralt. Geralt crossed the room and Jaskier's beaming smile went a bit strained around the edges, but there wasn't any fear or anger coming off him. He was a strange man. He handed Geralt the bar and cloth and, as though he had just recalled something amusing, clapped his hands together and turned back to the bed.

"That's right! I also managed to talk a few gentlemen into donating some old garments--" Jaskier told him and Geralt felt a flash of concern as the nobleman took the first step away from the chair and toward the bed. He limped very heavily, the wound clearly pained him a great deal, but he was able to hold some weight on that leg in spite of it. He could hobble. That really was an improvement.

He was also wearing pants, Geralt realized absently. He hadn't thought about it until he had looked to see the bandage, had glanced at Jaskier's leg looking for a splash of red and found that it was covered. The leggings he had on were tan, linen, and over-sized, but they were a far cry better than the viscera-caked, partial pair he'd been wearing last night. The shirt he had on was also new and feminine enough that Geralt suspected it, too, was a gift from Siona. It suited him better than the leggings did, but that wasn't saying much.

"They were quite eager to help me, though I suspect that the smell was what truly hastened them toward charity," Jaskier continued and finished fetching some spare fabric from the floor beside the bed. He hobbled back, an act that was truly excruciating to behold, and extended the fabric to Geralt with a flourish.

"I admit, what I know of Witchers is sorely lacking, but I presume they wear shirts more often than not? The leggings are simply...cleaner and less soaked in blood than your previous pair." Jaskier said and Geralt took the clothes from him. "I expect they'll fit, I was generous with my assumptions--" At that he did glance down in a calculating sort of way, though his eyes didn't drift far before darting back up. "I did not acquire smallclothes, I'm afraid..."

"It's fine," Geralt told him and moved to take a seat in the chair by the basin. 

"Yes, I had assumed as much," he replied, sounding a touch strained, and Geralt listened closely as he moved toward the mirror on the wall. Jaskier neither fell nor cried out in pain, so Geralt let him be, but the stress of standing and walking had been in his tone and expression. He would have to keep an eye on him or he would over-exert himself.

Jaskier had gathered quite an array of items and, unless Geralt had been mistaken, he didn't have a coin on him. He certainly hadn't had anything on him when Geralt had saved him from that group of monsters. It was impressive that he'd managed to fetch all of these amenities, without the use of one of his legs, and assemble himself entirely before Geralt even woke. Geralt had barely managed to find an apothecary and had only managed to acquire them lodgings when he'd promised to execute a complex job in exchange.

Perhaps this was how Jaskier had survived when he traveled. He clearly had a talent for talking people into helping him. 

He could hear the way the human was breathing from across the room. He was forcing air through his nose to calm himself and slow down.

"You shouldn't be walking so much, that wound isn't closed," Geralt warned him as he dunked the cloth in the water, lathered it against the soap, and started wiping down his face and neck. 

"It's fine," Jaskier dismissed airily. Geralt could almost imagine the flippant hand-gesture that accompanied that statement. He frowned.

"It isn't," Geralt said before Jaskier could continue with whatever excuse he was going to give. "If you fall or step wrong you could open it again."

Jaskier didn't say anything back and, for a while, the only sounds were the quiet splash of water and the little songs the bird sang as it hopped around the room. Geralt managed to clean most of himself--he would have to dunk his head underwater if he wanted any chance of cleaning his hair--and dressed in the clothes Jaskier had fetched while he slept. They fit; the leggings were tighter than the ones he'd worn the day before, but he could move in them so it didn't matter.

"I have your doublet," Geralt said and the statement seemed to startle Jaskier. He'd been staring in the mirror, comb in his hand, pondering something in silence, but that sentence pulled his attention back to Geralt. He turned and something in him relaxed as he looked the Witcher over. He had done a fair job of selecting clothing, Geralt would give him that.

"You have--wait, what? You have my doublet?" Jaskier's easy smile went a bit odd at that, like Geralt had just announced he was hiding a cake in Roach's saddlebag. The Witcher had already moved to retrieve his armor--when he unpacked that, he fished the doublet and the book from where he'd thrown them in the pack. Having been damp when it was stuffed, haphazardly, into the saddle bag, the doublet had dried into a wrinkled mess, but it was otherwise undamaged. Unfortunately, it still stank of river mud.

Geralt moved his armor and Jaskier's things to the bed, both so that he would have the space he needed to set his armor out and to prevent Jaskier from crossing the room on his injured leg. Jaskier limped the short distance to meet him at the bedside and gaped as Geralt walked over. He stared in open disbelief at the rumpled garment and the little blank book. When Geralt handed them over, he took them as if he wasn't entirely sure they were real.

"How in the world did you come across these?" Jaskier asked, mystified as he shook the doublet out and folded it nicely.

"The lark found them while we were traveling upstream," Geralt explained and started the arduous process of re-lacing his chest-plate and back-plate together.

"Bluebird," Jaskier corrected distantly and Geralt hummed a displeased noise.

"Finding those...It was strange enough that I thought something terrible might have happened. It was why we went looking for you," Geralt continued as though Jaskier had not corrected him. "If we hadn't come across that doublet in the water, we never would have turned back into the woods. "

"And my bones would currently be picked clean in a gully, bleaching to a stunning white in the summer sun," Jaskier said in a voice that was both sing-song and worryingly faint. Geralt looked sidelong at him, just to be certain he wasn't actually going to topple over again...but he seemed stable. Shaken but stable. He shot Geralt a weaker version of the smile he'd leveled at him earlier and slid that book into his pocket.

"Why carry that?" Geralt asked, abruptly, and Jaskier stilled, his hand still in his pocket.

"What? The book?" Jaskier asked and Geralt nodded. When he answered, he sounded like he thought it was a trick question. "To... write songs in?"

"I suppose that was why you had the lute," Geralt mused and turned his attention to the next piece of armor he had to attach. The pauldrons went together with more ease than the large pieces, but they did require him to look to make certain they were set in place correctly.

"No, that was clearly for self defense. My instrument of choice has always been the spoons."

Geralt snorted, a smile creeping onto his face as he checked both pauldrons and slid his vambrances over his sleeves and onto his forearms. He could almost feel himself relaxing as the armor came back together. The weight of it was reassuring.

"Well, I was going to ask about whether they had any lutes lying around, but spoons are easier." Geralt was terrible at casual conversation but, after a full night's sleep, was keeping fair pace with Jaskier. It was easier than he expected but that, too, was probably the bounty of sleep. He finished dressing and adjusted the straps of his scabbards. Jaskier was smiling at him when Geralt turned around to retrieve his weapons and gloves. "You can ask that barmaid--Sonia?"

"The lovely and bounteous Siona," Jaskier corrected him as if he were announcing her at court. Now that he was calmer, less drenched in sorrow and pain, Geralt understood his dramatics far better. The man was made for crowds and talking, he relished in performance and theatrics. They suited him. 

"That one," Geralt confirmed and mounted his swords and knives into their usual spots. He didn't expect there would be a great number of monsters on this particular job but he had learned to be prepared. He took a few potions from his bag, in the event that something did crop up, and snatched up the loaf of bread Jaskier had fetched for his breakfast. He held the bread with his teeth as he tied his hair back. It was a quick movement but Jaskier laughed at him anyway. When he was dressed, armed, and armored (at long last), he took the bread in hand and used it to point at the human.

"Stay. Here."

"What?" Jaskier looked scandalized and pressed a hand against his chest. "And miss out on the sights and sounds of scenic Posada?"

"Stay. Here," Geralt repeated and held his gaze for some time. "You can sight-see once you're not at risk of collapsing in the street and bleeding to death."

Jaskier grimaced and set his hands on his hips. He looked like he wanted to argue but eventually ended up just nodding along. "Yes, alright, that is fair. But it is going to be dreadfully boring trapped in here all day."

"The lark can keep you company," Geralt said and the little bird fluffed itself up proudly. It was seated on the table, comfortable and stationary as it pecked and picked at the crumbs leftover from the bread. Geralt was certain he didn't need the little lark for this job and having it stay with Jaskier might keep the both of them out of trouble. Maybe.

When Geralt left the tavern he stepped out into a hot summer day, wind blowing and sun baking the cliffs. He had slept far later than he'd expected, it was nearly noon. Roach greeted him with a bump and a shuffle, eager to move out of the stuffy stable, and Geralt obliged her. Roach was happy when they rode out and even happier once they left Posada and started down the empty dirt road that curved through the fields. Some had been harvested and stalks of cut grain jutted in low cover across the span of them. Some had been tilled again, with the dead plants turned back into the soil. But most of them were filled with long rows of tall, whispering grain. The hissing as the breeze shifted had been pleasant from afar and proved even more so up close. 

The apothecary had given him directions to the farm his wife had traveled to. The sheet was filled with long, largely unhelpful notes that jumped back and forth when the man had recalled something else of merit and decided to jot it down. It was all written in a nearly illegible hand, but Geralt could make out a very basic description of the farmhouse and some of the notes about the man who lived there. Ultimately, that was all Geralt needed, and he rode down the road until he found a location that matched. He kept an eye out for anything unusual as he traveled, any signs of attack or any strange disruptions on the roadside, but nothing caught his eye.

That was concerning, but it was too early to invest in any facet of his search.

The distance to the farm was greater than Geralt had guessed it would be. It would have proved a truly uncomfortable distance to travel on foot and was a inconvenient one while riding. Roach had no real qualms about it, as she enjoyed the sun and smelling the grain whenever he let her meander toward it, but she had also been allowed to sleep in until mid-day and was energetic. How an old woman would have made it to this farm and back in a day, Geralt had no idea. The farm, itself, was nothing unusual. The buildings were stone and mortar with a thatched roof. They were relatively new and, except for the silo, all seemed in good repair. The silo had a gaping hole down one side where the wall had collapsed. This was, ostensibly, the fault of a summer storm, and the building was otherwise in tact. 

The farmer was a broad man, one who gave Geralt a truly venomous look when he rode up. He hadn't been in the tavern when Geralt had arrived with the apothecary, but he had that same air about him and Geralt resigned himself to the interaction. The farmer listened when Geralt dismounted and relented tensely when he explained why he was there. The farmer had walked with him to the road and had answered every question Geralt asked, about the healer, about where she had gone, when she had gone, and whether there was anything strange happening in the area. He'd been candid, had gestured to the fields in question as he spoke, had given detailed descriptions of the troubles at hand, but he had only tolerated Geralt. Roach, however, he seemed neutral toward. He even offered a place to leave Roach while Geralt worked, and had gone to fetch the horse some water and feed when Geralt agreed.

Geralt had been wary about leaving Roach with this man, but he needed to search on foot first, until he had any sign to work from. Until then, it was best if Roach remained aside. She would enjoy the food and water and sunshine. The man didn't care for Witchers but that contempt didn't seem to extend to their mounts.

From what Geralt had gleaned, the valley was calm and peaceful, it had been even since the Elves had surrendered it and retreated mountains. There were rarely any noteworthy happenings--a thief here or there, a fox stealing chickens, that sort of thing. There had been a bear that lived on the edge of the valley, some time back, but someone or another had killed it. Very recently, however, a series of strange, inconvenient problems had started to effect various farms. Grain had gone missing (if the silos were in disrepair similar to this one, missing grain was hardly a shock) and pits had begun appearing in the fields. Some were narrow holes, others were much wider, dug deep and terminating well below the topsoil. 

Had he not just fought off an attack party of them, Geralt wouldn't have guessed that Nekker were at fault for this, but the idea crept into the back of his mind and lingered as he walked. Geralt tried not to give it too much weight while searching the fields, but it was hard not to step softly near the pits when he examined them--they were about the right size for Nekker boroughs, but the soil was too soft to hold tunnels and Geralt had not encountered any sinkholes that would imply collapsed tunnels well below the surface. Still, it cost him nothing to be thorough, especially when it came to the possibility of monsters, and he hadn't yet found any sign of the old woman. So, when he looked into the pits, he had been careful to examine everything, every aspect, before he moved onward.

Geralt went to each of the spots the farmer had complained about and searched them, one by one, for anything worth knowing. One of the spots was just off the roadside near the top of a hill on his property, one was near a pond at the lowest point of the valley, and the last was near the edge of his fields, where the soil became too rocky to till. The first two locations were unremarkable. The soil had been tilled at both of them, save for the spots where they had been dug up, and the roads were too well traveled to note any of the prints left on them. The last location was the only one where grain was still planted and waited for harvest. When Geralt examined it, looking for the series of holes the farmer had spoken of, he was forced to wander the rows.

The holes he found were near the very edge of the field and they were not quite like the others. The other pits had been large, wider and shallower, nearly ditches. Those had been disturbed by the tilling, to the point where they had likely been partially filled. He could have believed the large holes were made by monsters, if he looked at them long enough and felt particularly paranoid. These, however, were not made by claws and mindless gnawing at the earth. These pits were narrow and numerous. They were all located in one corner, where the field came up to the rock and scrub that marked the edge of the valley. There were several dozen of these holes. Each was neatly dug in a line, in a grid, and Geralt knelt as he looked them over.

These holes were made with tools, the edges were smooth on one side and jagged on the opposite; the stones in the dirt had marks from where they'd been scraped with steel. Someone had been dug these with shovels. Why, though? They clearly weren't burying anything, and there was nothing of value to be mined up here. The valley was good for nothing but farmland and the mountains around it were poor of every mineral of value.

Geralt knelt at one of the holes and reached down into it. He felt the sides, searched for any strange aspect to the pit itself, and shuffled the earth at the base of it. It was deep enough that he could just graze the bottom with his fingers and, as he did, he felt something thin and hard. It took some effort to grab it, given that he couldn't see past his arm into the pit, but he managed to get his fingers around it and pull it free from the soil.

He stared at it and, oddly enough, it was the smell of it that told him what it was. Yellowed and brown, he might've mistaken it for a root on sight, but it stank of old marrow and still had the barest hints of rot clinging to the outside. He held it in his hand and turned it over; against the black of his glove it looked whiter than it was.

This was a bone. 

More than that, it was a recognizable piece of bone. It was the right half of a mandible, fractured by blunt force. Probably the shovel's doing. The longer Geralt stared at it the more certain he was that it had come from a person. It was shaped like a human jaw, but it was small. The indents in it were unusual but natural. It came from a young child.

"Someone is exhuming remains," Geralt said, more for himself than anything else. It was sad but, if nothing else, it wasn't his business. He knew the events that resulted in human control of this valley and it didn't take much to guess who was digging bones up and why they were there in the first place. The farmer's problems with these holes were not part of his job, though, but it did give him something. He hadn't seen any signs of riders or people moving through the fields or across the roads--if someone had taken the old woman, for whatever reason, they hadn't left tracks he had seen. Humans were rarely that stealthy but.... 

"Maybe elves?" He sighed and considered the bone in his hand, debated whether to put it back in the earth or hold on to it until he could give it back.

The grain around him had a strange quality, as large fields often did. It made everything quiet, deadened sound like heavy snow. All he heard was the wind moving through it, and he had been hearing that for hours by the time he searched this corner of the farmland. He had begun to tune it out and relish the silence. Unfortunately, he wasn't great at tuning out sounds, and the gentle rush of wind drowned out the whistle of the stone coming at him. He didn't notice it until it cracked against his temple. It had been thrown hard, probably with a sling, and the blow dazed him. He was knocked off balance and, before he could recover, a shape lunged from behind him and attacked. The club struck him, coming down on his other temple. It connected with a hard , damp thud and Geralt was knocked to the ground.

"Good guess." The woman who attacked him was an elf in traditional armor, livid, and hefting a weapon that could crack a normal human skull with a single swing. She seemed irritated that he had survived the hit and was looking at her.

He clung to consciousness--much to his attacker's surprise and consternation--but another swift strike and she knocked Geralt out cold. He sagged, face first in the rocky soil, and heard no more.


	13. Infatuation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please see chapter notes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has occurred to me that I changed the rating of this fic quite a while after I started it and some of the people here got here waaaay before it was rated M. 
> 
> I was undecided about how explicit to make this story and then this chapter started coming out of my fingers and I realized I should begin giving warnings. There is nothing directly explicit in this chapter, it's mostly just Jaskier rehashing the last day and having feelings for a very long time, but there probably will be explicit elements in upcoming chapters. 
> 
> I will leave a note when that is going to happen. If you feel strongly about those elements being something that can be omitted from a read-through/skipped, let me know in a comment.
> 
> This chapter is long and largely skippable if you are so inclined (if you aren't fond of lengthy introspection or explicit-ish thirst) the rest of the story will be understandable, regardless. The next chapter will be posted shortly and can be read directly from Chapter 11.
> 
> TL;DR for those who wish to skip is at the bottom of the work.  
> 

Jaskier considered himself very good at reading people. People were stories, each one fascinating and filled with potential, and Jaskier was a connoisseur. Geralt of Rivia, unfortunately, was a book written in an entirely different language that was buried a considerable distance underground. Jaskier had learned to read a few of his habits, but he was nowhere near conversational fluency when it game to Geralt. Certainly, he could cast about and guess the meaning of the things Geralt said or did, and that would do in the moment. It was far less helpful in the overall scheme of things.

Geralt was a big scary Witcher, yes, yes--but he was shockingly thoughtful. Jaskier had come to this conclusion before, or some similar shade of it at least, but he hadn't realized the extent of Geralt's caring until the he'd been roused from his mortifying fainting spell. The full force of Geralt's knightly, gentle nature had come to him then, in something like an epiphany. 

The Witcher had shouldered the burden of his literal dead weight, held him gently, and had lifted his heart from darkness all while depositing him in the finest houses of healing. He had made it his very quest to see Jaskier safe and comfortable, cradled in gossamer light and relief from his wounds, here, at the edge of the world. He had refreshed the bard with water so cool and vitalizing it had nurtured his very soul. Geralt had spoken to him and shared gentle truths to heal the wounds of his battered heart, and he had done so as though he could not do otherwise. When Jaskier had been overcome by gratitude, Geralt had tasted of spice and smoke and magic as he gazed in tender, honorable reluctance at the bard, his affections only barely rebuffed for worry of his ailments. The light of the candles had cast him in a halo as warm and golden as the spires of Cintra during a summer dawn--

In all fairness, he was pretty sure he been delirious at the time of that epiphany. 

(He _had_ been rather dehydrated..and also exsanguinated. Could one be partially exsanguinated? Regardless, his mental faculties had been...largely unavailable and the world had been hazy and swimming.)

When he awoke, many hours later, he'd thought everything through as he tried to pry himself out of bed. The rational side of him stood by the assessment his addled self had made (albeit with far less poetry): Geralt of Rivia was both a gentle man and a hero. Now that he felt less like shit, Jaskier intended to make sure people knew about him. Geralt was inspiring, probably the best inspiration Jaskier had ever encountered and, oh, he planned to write him _such_ a ballad. It was what he deserved after such an extended bout of heroics.

But, before he sat down and dedicated himself to composition and the muse, he realized something had to be done about the state of them.

The bed had been comfortable beyond reason, but Geralt had stuffed him into it fully dressed with his shoes still on. He had been filthy for so long that, frankly, Jaskier had lost the ability tell where his blood ended and the Nekker blood (et all) began. His silk leggings (what remained of them) had become solid in places and distressingly crunchy in others. It didn't bear contemplating why--no, the priority was reverting to a less disgusting state. Everything else had to be pushed by the wayside until it was accomplished.) 

Jaskier had always been positively worthless when it came to living in the wilderness. He made peace with that fact long ago. Without Duck he had gone from a simple traveling bard to absolute catastrophe in less than a day. He had needing a Witcher to rescue him, personally. Survivalism was clearly not his wheelhouse-- _civilization_ , however, was where Jaskier had always thrived. Jaskier navigated the castes and rankings of academia in his sleep, he breathed courtly intrigue, and there had never been a bard so effective at wielding charm as he. They had clearly booked a room in a very nice inn and, if Jaskier was good at anything in this whole, wide world, it was talking the owners of very nice inns into letting him do whatever he wanted.

He usually had a lute with him and coin in his pocket when he argued his needs, but he liked a challenge now and again.

Over all, he needed two and a half hours to acquire everything necessary to make life, well, _livable_ once more. The innkeeper had been surprisingly open to speaking with him, but the location lacked a serviceable bathtub. Apparently the one he usually kept for guests had been set aside to use for boiling bottles. The man was a brewer and...well...Jaskier understood his reluctance. He wouldn't have been comfortable drinking something that was bottled _after_ he used that tub. It had been an unfortunate setback, but the refusal had curried him some favor...and had also inspired all of the rest of his interactions. 

To his everlasting delight, the woman who had been cooking breakfast for the patrons of the tavern overheard his disappointed sigh. Her name was _Siona_. She was a cute thing, short and spritely with a bright face and rosy cheeks. She was all soft curves and round shapes and her faded yellow dress flare prettily as she walked. Oh, but she had looked softer and more comfortable than that wondrous bed, like he could sink into her and slumber peacefully for years--it was not, in any way shape or form, a chore to talk and flirt with Siona, the barmaid. 

He ought to have been mortified, he realized, given the state of him, but something in his horrendous appearance had somehow aided in his efforts. 

Siona had been so alarmed when she turned around and spied him asking about that tub, that she all but dashed to him and begged to hear what had happened. He told her the woeful tale of his companion, Duck, about his search, the terrible monsters, and the tragedy of Duck's sacrifice. She'd listened, rapt, and brought him a hearty breakfast and cider, then she'd scurried off and returned with a bar of scented, delicate soap. Her eyes had gone wide and she'd gasped as he spun his tale of adventure and heartache; Jaskier had delighted in every reaction she gifted him and had fallen love, just a little, before the end. That, at least, was a familiar feeling and he had missed it. 

He had almost lost her when he told her he had been saved by none other than Geralt of Rivia. She'd looked worried and had backed away from him before she stopped herself. It was...a reasonable reaction for someone who didn't know him. She'd been skeptical as he assured her that the vile rumors were little more than that, and he won her back when he described how Geralt had rode in on his noble horse and slew a whole host of monsters with his shining sword. She sighed wistfully when he recounted that Geralt had carried him to safety at the edge of the river, had bandaged his wounds, and listened as Jaskier had lamented the loss of his heroic and loyal companion.

She was moved, he could tell, and watching the journey she went on as he spoke was as revitalizing for Jaskier as the food and drink. He had forgotten the romance of this sort of thing, so tied up with fame that he neglected his audience...which was, as he thought about it, probably why he was not famous.

True, there was a significant amount of pity in her demeanor while they conversed. She was especially distraught by the loss of his Duck which, admittedly, endeared her to the bard even more than she already was. She was a sweet thing, and Jaskier--now, he never would have exploited her good nature for ill-gain, he wasn't a monster. He didn't take what wasn't freely given. That said...if she wanted to give him nice things because she had enjoyed his company and conversation, well, he was more than happy to accept the tokens of her appreciation. He planned to cherish them always, of course, and she had blushed a sweet pink when he kissed her hand. It had turned even deeper when he pointed out how her lovely face and lilting voice were only eclipsed by her overwhelming generosity.

She had left him be after that, overcome with coquettish shyness--and it was at then that Jaskier met her father.

The man was very large, very wide, and hadn't even the sparest bit of softness to him. He was a mountain of a man, as was his dear friend behind him, and what they had in size and intimidation, they lacked in sweet disposition. Curiously, they did share his daughter's propensity for giving gifts. These were given a bit less freely than Siona's had been and carried the implied threat of violence, should he continue to be friendly with the girl. That was...well, it was a tragic loss on Jaskier's part, truly, and he told them as much. However, given that he had no ability to rebuff any measure of violence, and he hadn't actually intended to do more than chat with Siona anyway, he resigned himself to his fate and accepted their offer.

When he returned to their room, full and high off the delight of good conversation with a pretty girl who thought him charming, he found that Geralt was still embedded in the mattress. He stared at the Witcher and, honestly, Jaskier wasn't certain if he had gone to sleep or had simply reverted to stone. The only thing that reassured the bard that Geralt still lived was that he snored ever-so-slightly as he exhaled. It was a little wheezing whistle through his nose and that feature was so startlingly human that it stuck in Jaskier's mind long after he noticed it.

The little bird had settled by Geralt's chin and it rustled awake when Jaskier returned with water. It had moved and, fluffed and hopped, and looked like it was going to peck Geralt awake--Jaskier managed to distract it before it could. He whistled a soft little tune and you'd think he'd painted the sun and sky with how fast that little bird flew over to join him. He whistled softly to it while he bathed, if only so he could bathe without Geralt awake to witness it, and the little bird whistled back at him, singing the same song at the same gentle volume.

It had been a soft morning filled with a return to normalcy. Apart from the lack of Duck (it still stung when he looked, reflexively, and there was no wolf to be found), it was perfect. He had to remind himself that the wolf wasn't gone. He might have been delirious when Geralt had explained, but he remembered that with absolute clarity. Geralt had been certain that Duck would return to him very soon and, if Jaskier trusted anyone's opinions on supernatural creatures and their behavior, he trusted him.

Once he had bathed and dressed, Jaskier relaxed and pondered Geralt. There was little else to ponder and whistling for a small, avian audience, while entertaining, didn't require his whole attention.

The Witcher had rendered him a very impressive amount of aid and had yet to request anything in recompense. (He'd asked for Jaskier's name, yes, but that wasn't worth a pittance, let alone a few life debts.) Jaskier had fetched Geralt the same comforts he'd already enjoyed--had refreshed the water with a new, absolutely scalding batch, had hobbled his way around the back of the kitchen to beg the lovely Siona for a meal for his heroic Witcher, and had managed to pilfer spare towels for said Witcher to dry himself off with. He'd already negotiated clothing--that, thankfully, had occurred to him in the moment--and despite being drab, it would suffice. (He could not survive another day of shirtless Geralt, the sight was practically a weapon in and of itself.)

None of that was anything especially notable. He would have done all of it anyway; it wasn't an attempt to repay kindness so much as...friendly courtesy. But that left him with the question of just what, in specific, he could do for Geralt that wasn't just a common gift and thanks. Jaskier had been caught up in thought, idly drying his hair, when he heard a heavy snort from the bed. The bird had flown over without pause, singing a distinct and memorable series of notes--it had a specific musical phrase for Geralt, Jaskier recognized it immediately.

The Witcher had seemed less than impressed when Jaskier pointed out the singing again. The bard would have argued his case but then something stunning happened. Geralt stood and stretched and Jaskier realized, as his heart immediately began to race like a fleeing hare, that Geralt of Rivia had slept in the nude. (Technically he had merely been naked, to be nude he would have had to remove his necklace--actually, not the point. Not even remotely the point.) Jaskier gaped, frozen in absolute surprise as that glorious image burned itself into the black behind his eyes.

_Gods and--whomever, whatever--Melitele, he was going to die looking at this man._

He couldn't look away. Jaskier wasn't fond of the idea of peeping, of enjoying sights that his partners had not vocally consented to, but he absolutely could not look away. He stared in shock as Geralt stretched his arms above his head. His hips, slim with a bulge of muscle just at the crest, shifted and he fell into a perfect contrapposto. Jaskier's comparisons to marble statues had never felt less like a joke than while he watched Geralt pop his spine and neck. The extended poses he struck made the bard wish he was a painter.

Geralt's skin was tan where it was exposed to the sun and just slightly paler where it hid beneath his clothes--and Jaskier could barely fathom how that skin moved. It was littered with scars, true, he was a veritable map of combat, but it didn't have the same mean, hardness as most soldiers. There was a thickness to his skin, an edge of plush softness, like a layer of velvet drawn over muscles of unforgiving, cutting hardness. 

There was so much to look at but, in an embarrassingly tame turn of events, Jaskier ended up mesmerized by Geralt's shoulders. Certainly, the more salacious parts of him were lovely, but when Geralt lowered his arms and moved them to twist--the way his shoulder blades slid across his back, how they bunched and pulled at hard shapes beneath a layer of soft skin, that was a revelation. Sweet _Melitele_ , he could practically feel that movement under his fingertips, imagined how that skin might taste--Geralt turned, his brows knit, and Jaskier's whole soul nearly left him in a wheezing, sharp exhale. 

His throat caught around that horrified, startled wheeze as he whipped around, finally restraining himself from staring. His heart hammered against his ribs and he looked blankly ahead as he waited for thought to return. Geralt...yes, he had asked him a question, hadn't he? What was it? It had only been a word, right? Elaboration? Mockery? There could have been a blade to his throat and Jaskier wouldn't have been able to recall what he'd been asked. 

Strike him dead where he sat; all Jaskier could remember is the shape of him silhouetted against the far wall.

The little bird tweeted at him, or at Geralt, and Jaskier leapt on the topic like it would save his life. It might have done. Geralt grunted an agreement with him and Jaskier nearly choked again as he heard the Witcher start to walk. Thankfully, he went to the mirror, and Jaskier was granted a long moment to attempt and recover some shred of his flimsy dignity. A few deep breaths had his heart slowly calming, but other parts of him were harder to quell with breathing alone. Jaskier had to take more...extreme measures to deal with those. 

His leg was sore, yes, but it was easy to ignore so long as he didn't bash it against anything. Without hesitation he promptly prodded his thigh with a firm press of his thumb--the shock of pain was blinding and shot through him like he'd been tossed into an icy lake. He didn't gasp, but it was a near thing. Fortunately, for all his suffering, by the time Geralt mused about a tub, Jaskier had managed to calm himself. All of himself.

Jaskier flitted about eagerly, after that, filling space with sound and words and kindnesses. Geralt was suspicious but that was (he hoped) just Geralt being himself. Clearly the Witcher felt no shyness in regard to his nudity--nor should he--but Jaskier was not quite the cad he played at being. He _very determinedly_ kept his eyes on Geralt's face. For the entire conversation. Even if what he saw in his periphery was very tempting to examine.

It took time for Geralt to bathe and dress and, thankfully, the Witcher didn't notice that Jaskier had spent the whole duration very studiously attending to his hair. Geralt had scolded him for walking about, which was touching, but it was very hard to take heartfelt warnings from a man he couldn't look at for fear of swooning. Jaskier had lost too much blood recently--he didn't know how long that took to replace, but he needed what he had to be, shall we say, available to the rest of him.

Then Geralt had done the most miraculous thing. 

He'd returned Jaskier's favorite doublet. 

The doublet that had, apparently, been the very key to saving the bard's life.

The Witcher left very shortly after that, giving the care of his "lark" over to Jaskier as he traveled to help find a missing woman. He left Jaskier alone with instructions to remain in his absence and Jaskier had nothing to ponder except the impossibility of the gift he had just handed him. It was staggering, the luck involved in his finding and keeping that doublet and contemplating it too long started to give him an impressive headache. Unfortunately, when he tried to think of literally anything else, Jaskier found his musings drifting toward the array of feelings Geralt had managed to dredge up today. 

"He is absolutely staggering," Jaskier announced to the bird. Staggering sounded quite a lot like the word 'ridiculous' when Jaskier said it, and that made the bard feel a little better. By that same token, however, Geralt was also _staggering_. It was hard not to be consumed by his presence, truly, and that put Jaskier in something of an uncomfortable position. Geralt was interesting, he was inspiring, and he was going to have a terribly difficult time trying to extract information from him, to learn about the Witcher, if he couldn't stop himself from staring and, if he was honest, wanting.

Oh dear.

"Oh no," he said and looked at the bird. It looked back and tweeted conversationally. "He's wonderful." 

The bird tweeted a single note as if to echo its master's brevity. _And?_

Jaskier pressed a hand to his face and hobbled his way over to the bed. A sense of vague, existential dread settled in his stomach. He dropped down to sit on the mattress and felt his heart thump heavy in his chest, beating faster for an entirely different and less appealing reason than before. This was...a problem.

He had always been a romantic, from childhood on he had been given to romantic gestures and flings. Mostly his romantic forays had been chaste, in every possible sense--Jaskier was simply given to flights of fancy and his heart, his tender fool heart, was eager to fall into love. He fell in love with faces and smiles and people he could not longer remember the names of, briefly or for a time, and regretted none of them. He could adore anyone given enough time and curiosity. He had fallen in and out of love, casually, for as long as he could recall.

A few of his heart's adventures had been a bit more serious than the others, had seen him staring into Duck's face and wondering what echoes of his paramour were encapsulated by his beloved companion. He could ascribe any number of adjectives and virtues to anyone if he put in enough effort, and drawing parallels with the virtues of Duck was easy once he had decided what he was looking for. It appeased his heart in the moment, let him imagine he had finally found his truest love, and that comfort made it all the more terrible when those long sojourns ended in ruin. He loved too easily and was desperate to be true to his soulmate, it was a hideous combination.

And now...now he had all but thrown himself into that abyss again. He hadn't noticed how quickly his admiration and attracted had escalated. (Of course he had noticed that Geralt was beautiful, that was a given, but he hadn't looked at the man shirtless yesterday and been entranced by his shoulders.) His attraction and admiration were fueled by awe, gratitude, and the emotional upheaval that came from deepest grief crashing over him and then being lifted away by that kind person he already appreciated. He was beyond simple idle interest in Geralt, beyond simple lust, and that was dangerous. He was infatuated, enchanted with the very idea of him: Geralt of Rivia.

The same Geralt of Rivia who had a soul creature that hunted monsters with him. That had done so for ten years.

Jaskier had to lie down.

"This is terrible," Jaskier announced, quite probably to the bird, and it fluttered over to perch itself at the head of the bed. Jaskier looked up at it, one hand unconsciously gripping his shirt above his heart. The bird looked nonplussed. Geralt had lived with this creature for a decade and, as far as Jaskier had seen, was not racing to find the person who had shaped it. Had he found them already? Was that why he sounded so calm when he explained how they work? No, he sounded calm when he explained everything.

He'd admitted he never expected love. If Jaskier had been in his position and had been gifted a creature against all odds, he would have been positively crazed with the need to find the person who shaped it. Geralt, unlike the bard, was extremely skilled at hunting things. It was his mission in life, his job, and he was so well known for his skill in that regard that he was all but synonymous with the idea. If there was someone to find and he had even attempted to look, for the briefest of times, he had found them. Of this Jaskier had no doubt.

Oh, but that was a sad, sad thought and it left a sore spot on his poor infatuated heart.

"I bet you lead him right to them, didn't you?" Jaskier asked and the bird gave him a single tweet as it cocked its head. 

"This will be...an ordeal, little bluebird," Jaskier lamented and looked at the ceiling. He could no more stop his infatuation with Geralt than he could stop the sun rising--he knew better than to attempt to reason with his fool heart. But Geralt...oh, he was so very _much_ that Jaskier couldn't even frame the ends of his previous relationships and Geralt in the same thought. If Geralt didn't turn him down immediately, if he had a chance to really engage with the Witcher and grow close...Jaskier couldn't begin to imagine the hurt that would come down upon him at the end. 

It would probably be a glorious, adventurous ride while it lasted, and Jaskier weighed whether it was worth the attempt.

He would have to ask, of course, when Geralt returned from his search. If he was already tied to his one true love, if he had found them, Jaskier could respect his bond and keep distance. That would be a nice, firm wall between his heart and whatever this might be. If Jaskier learned Geralt's soulmate's name, heard stories about how suited they were, then he could bend his heart to submit. They could be friends. That was better or, at least, less fleeting, potentially.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TL:DR: Jaskier is extremely thirsty, but conflicted. Geralt is very attractive and also nice to him and also grouchy and he is not sure what to do with that. Jaskier cannot even, but also wants to attempt to hit that. Unless Geralt is taken in which case, cool-- _cool, cool, cool_ , friends, yes?


	14. Roach

Jaskier, in a truly impressive feat of willpower, had done as Geralt asked and had remained in the room. 

For a whole day.

It was, quite honestly, a torturous experience. He spent the first few hours after Geralt left just pondering the Witcher, wondering what might be done to repay his kindness, (had marveled at that kindness in general,) and then mulled over the mildly alarming level of fondness he was developing for him. This introspection occupied a good deal of his time and, frankly, he wasn't entirely shocked that his fool heart had decided to latch onto the Witcher. 

It wasn't Jaskier's fault, of course, the situation was clearly not in the bard's favor. Geralt had the gall to be tall, handsome, muscular, heroic, brooding, and mysterious all at once--when he had started being nice as well? There was nothing for it. No one could have resisted his charms. 

Or, Jaskier couldn't, at least. 

That whole matter settled (as several hours of pondering seemed sufficiently indulgent), Jaskier had decided that the very least he could do for Geralt while he was an injured invalid was to actually follow his instructions. So, despite the complete and utter lack of anything to occupy himself with, he had remained indoors. Fortunately, as the rest of the day yawned ahead of him, there was one ray of sunshine to brighten the dreary drudgery.

He had Geralt's little bluebird with him to keep him company.

No matter how melodramatic he wished to be while he complained, he wasn't entirely alone, and for that he had been thankful. The bird had been fair company, all things considered, and replied whenever Jaskier looked at it or spoke. He had no idea if it understood any word he said to it, but it certainly knew how to wait for pauses and then offer up a response. Its array of adorable chirps and tweets was impressive and it employed them with great skill. Even without contributing anything that remotely resembled content, the bird was better conversation than many of the people Jaskier knew.

They'd ended up eating dinner together. Jaskier enjoyed a bowl of stew while the bluebird devoured some stale bread. According to the barmaid, it had been left over from the morning and had fallen to the kitchen floor. The bird hadn't minded in the slightest and had been overjoyed to have a whole loaf of its own to pick at. They'd sang songs and Jaskier discovered that the little bird was positively enamored with his singing voice. While he was normally very adoring when it came to his fans, Jaskier had felt the tiniest sliver of conflict about this one. The bird undoubtedly represented Geralt's true love and...Jaskier, to phrase it delicately, was entertaining notions of a romantic fling with the Witcher (if he could manage to convince him to participate). 

It was, therefore, a bit awkward to spend his day serenading the simulacrum of the person he would be, shall we say, jumping over in the queue?

Oh, but then when he'd stopped it had given him the saddest look. At that point, Jaskier had no choice but to oblige it and so, oblige he had.

He couldn't well blame the bluebird for representing Jaskier's potential competition, he'd reasoned as he sang, and the little bird had been alight all the while. He serenaded the little creature with every song he knew, some more than once, until he had started feeling the strain wearing on his throat. The bird, in turn, had decided to serenade him with very keen, whistled renditions of his own songs and Jaskier had relished them. He had listened and let his cares slip away and, unfortunately, had fallen asleep. He had planned on staying awake and waiting for Geralt to return but slumber had been too enticing.

It was his error--reclining on a luxuriously soft bed, trading music with an adorable conversationalist--he acknowledged that. He should have, at the very least, sat himself upright whilst listening. He hadn't and in turn he'd missed Geralt returning to the tavern altogether. 

Jaskier slept heavily, cradled in the comfort of that wonderful bed, and didn't wake until late the next day. Something in the combination of food, comfort, and safety had encouraged every fiber of his being to truly commit to slumber. He had been rendered numb and immovable, had snored into the pillow, had drooled just a bit, and when he'd finally woken, a muggy sort of headache hovered behind his eyes. If he'd had any wine the evening before, he'd have called this a hangover--he had heard of people being drunk on sleep, but he had thought it was a colorful turn of phrase. As it turned out, it was not.

Headache aside, he had enjoyed far more rest than he normally indulged in...nearly enough to feel a sense of guilt about it, but the last few days had been...exceptionally strenuous. Perhaps it balanced out.

Or, perhaps, he was a decadent fop who needed to get up and fetch breakfast for the two of them. Yes, that one sounded correct, even if it was a terribly rude thought to have about himself.

He was a mouthy cad, that Jaskier.

Jaskier groaned as he shoved himself up, his arms sinking into the feather-bed, and levered his face out of the pillow. He opened his eyes and found them bleary, still recovering from the pressure of sleeping face-down in a pillow, and it was a few moments more before he cast a glance around the room. The curtains remained closed, the light was low, and nothing else had moved since he last saw it--save for the little bluebird who had moved to perch on the pillow by his head. He had, unfortunately, jostled it awake as he extricated himself and it was none too happy about the disruption.

The bird blinked blearily at him and let out a single indignant tweet as it awoke. It ruffled its feathers and Jaskier watched it fondly. It was terribly cute. So terribly cute that, despite his mixed feelings regarding its creator, he couldn't resist leaning in and pressing a kiss on its little head. 

It tweeted indignantly again and fluttered to a safer distance.

"Yes, that is reasonable," Jaskier agreed, his tone apologetic and his voice a little rough from sleep. "I should have asked permission first."

Jaskier's smile was wide as he leaned and swung his arm back to the bed behind him. "You know I don't think I--"

His hand hit the blanket and Jaskier paused, his teasing apology forgotten as he twisted to examine the other half of the bed. It was empty. He frowned at it, as though the bed could reveal its secrets, but it was not terribly forthcoming. It wasn't long before Jaskier awoke entirely and, as he stared at that open space, his mind raced.

What had Geralt told him about the job he had to do? He had mentioned something, in passing, about an old woman gone missing. Jaskier had seen the notes left for him, the rambling instructions, and had thought little of it. Geralt was a Witcher, after all, and he rather excelled at locating lost invalids wandering the wilds alone. Jaskier, himself, was a testament to that.

But he hadn't returned?

It was...strange, but not entirely alarming. Jaskier had no idea what a normal timetable was for Witcher hunts, it was an element that had never been given a mention in any of the songs or stories. For all he knew it could have been perfectly normal for Geralt to vanish for days at a time.

There were any number of reasons that Geralt could have stayed out. He could have raced off on horseback to catch a fleeing gang of terrible brigands, or he could have had to wait until dark to ambush an enemy stronghold filled with an army of mystic warriors, or perhaps he had to fight off a host of thieves to protect the damsel--er, old lady he was rescuing. The dramatic tension alone was enough reason to stay out overnight. It would make for a truly impressive ballad.

"Yes, that sounds reasonable," Jaskier decided and swung his legs over the side of the bed. 

He stood and was promptly reminded about his leg wound as pain bolted up his body. To his delight, once he had stopped swearing, he realized it felt much better than it had the day before. It was a small improvement, but he had always appreciated small steps. Once he recovered his senses, Jaskier hobbled to the window and cast open the curtains--he had expected to find the calm blue of early morning but was greeted, instead, by the blinding, judgmental light of noon. He recoiled from the window but, within a few minutes, his eyes adjusted to the brightness and a small trickle of worry snuck it's way down his spine.

"No--" Jaskier scolded sharply and, behind him, the little bird gave a hesitant tweet. "Not you, sweetling," he said swiftly and turned to give the little bluebird a dazzling smile. He braced against the window and let out a huff of breath.

No--he was absolutely not allowed to do this again. He had, no more than four days ago, gone completely to pieces over Duck's disappearance. He had only _just_ recouped his capacity to feel emotion and not degenerate into a weeping, snappish wreck or, as he had done more than once, faint dead away. He refused to relapse just because he was gifted when it came to panicking about people.

Geralt of Rivia was extremely prepared and, he reasoned, anything capable of delaying Geralt was not something that Jaskier could assist with, anyway.

"You know what, my dear?" Jaskier drawled and pushed off from the window. The little bird looked at him curiously--or, at least, he assumed curiosity when it tilted its head to peer at him sideways. He held out an arm as if he were offering it to a fine lady and, within moments, the little bird fluttered to him and perched on his wrist.

How well trained it was.

"Yesterday we were good, obedient even, but if I do not leave this building and savor the taste of fresh air, I will surely die. Today we rebel. Would you care to accompany me?"

The bird, as was its wont, replied with a single tweet. Jaskier nodded and it remained as he gradually hobbled his way to the door and then into the tavern. There were quite a number of folk in the tavern as he strolled out but, save for a greeting from the barmaid (which Jaskier returned just as brightly as it had been given), he was ignored. He was neither as noteworthy nor imposing as his traveling companion and, at least for the moment, being summarily ignored suited him just fine.

Outside it was cooler than Jaskier expected. The breeze that cut through Posada was laden with dust, but it was just this side of chilly on his skin. The little bird hopped up into the air and flitted about, singing its joyous little heart out as it greeted the day. The sun was warm and, for a time, Jaskier was content to just stand and soak it in. He might've gone for a walk but, as he was toying with the idea, the little bird interrupted its song with an off-key note and darted away.

Jaskier had only known it a few days but, in that time, he had learned enough about the creature to know that it was not likely to stop singing for anything short of a demand...and that it did not let out sounds that were garbled or off-key. Jaskier watched it dart off and, without pause, he hobbled after it. It took him some time to reach the corner of the tavern's stable; the distance was almost enough to wind him. When he finally arrived at the street corner he heard the little bluebird shouting in sharp, annoyed cries. 

"Fuck off--"

The scene was a simple one, but the elements were discordant enough that Jaskier felt a rush of panic. The little lark was puffed and attacking, swooping and bouncing off the head of a truly massive man in a straw hat. He was swatting at the bird but his range of motion was severely hampered by the reins in his hand. The reins were currently attached to Roach. Roach, who looked entirely prepared to stomp that man into the ground if he looked away from her for more than the merest moment.

"Oh stop! Stop little--uh, shit," Jaskier called, somewhat less than elegantly, hampered by the fact that he had never heard Geralt call the bird by any sort of name. He used the first thing that jumped to mind as he hurried, as fast as his decent leg could drag him, toward the man walking Roach. "Sweetling, stop!"

The man managed to bat the bird after quite a number of failures. The bluebird, dazed from being knocked aside, bobbed in the air unsteadily but managed to make its way back to Jaskier. It landed on his shoulder, as it was wont to do with Geralt, and complained about the man in loud, lyrical chirps. The man, livid and a bit battered, glowered at Jaskier from underneath his hat.

"You friends with that Witcher asshole?" 

Jaskier was taken aback by the sheer vitriol in the man's tone. The words were unkind, certainly, but far worse had been uttered by those who disliked Witchers. The tone, however, was so venomous that it actually made the bard consider lying--oh, and the guilt that welled up at that impulse was strong. He stood up straighter and held his ground as the man came closer, Roach trailed unhappily behind as he pulled her reins.

"I am," Jaskier announced in something akin to a challenging tone. He certainly hoped this fellow wasn't about to beat him for that answer, but that was a secondary concern. "Give me the horse." 

It was not an eloquent request and Jaskier felt his stomach drop as he made it--as he _demanded_ this angry fellow hand over the reins. This was not how he liked to acquire boons from strangers but...that was Geralt's horse. The man doted upon it and Jaskier still felt dreadfully guilty for prodding her so many times as they rode. She was a sweet thing and ought not to be dragged anywhere.

"Happily," the man sneered, unhappily, and shoved the reins into Jaskier's hand before he continued walking. When he brushed past Jaskier he bumped the bard with his shoulder and, between his being roughly the size of a building and Jaskier trying to balance on one leg, knocked him down with embarrassing ease. He didn't stop walking as Jaskier hit the ground and, over his shoulder, he called: "Tell your friend he can watch his own damned horse. I don't board animals!"

Jaskier was, to put it mildly, completely baffled. He hissed as he pushed himself to sitting--he'd managed to take the fall to his hip and spare his leg, but now his hip would surely bruise--and turned his gaze back to Roach. Roach eyed him, her expression far less murderous than it had been moments before. For as angry as both she and the man dragging her along had looked, she didn't seem to have suffered any harm. She bent to sniff at Jaskier and waited, staring, for him to...do what? He had no idea, but the worry that welled up in him had been growing by the second.

Geralt had not returned overnight.

He had left Roach in the care of that livid man, something that had lasted longer than he had expected.

Surely Geralt hadn't wanted to leave her there, and if he hadn't wanted to, well, he must have had a great need to keep her out of harms way.

Oh no--the anxiety that Jaskier had ignored swept over him. The bird on his shoulder, already recovered from being cruelly swatted, let out a warbling little sound. Jaskier looked aside at it and, as he considered reassuring it, realized that there was little he could say. 

This boded very poorly...but what could he do about it? 

"I am a terrible tracker," Jaskier apologized. It was spoken to the bird but, truly, it was for Roach as well. There was precious little chance that they would be able to find Geralt, and less still that they would be able to aid him against whatever had waylaid him. 

Jaskier took a deep breath and, not for the first time, he wished that Duck were here. Surely the white wolf could help them, could solve this dilemma--oh, but that was terribly unfair to Duck, wasn't it? Jaskier was given to self-pity but Duck's sacrifice had thrown so much into heavy relief. Geralt had trained his bird, had taught it commands, presumably so that it would listen while he hunted. He had accounted for it, not depended upon it. Jaskier had always let the wolf do as it would, had never trained it, had never thought to try. He trusted Duck to judge what was best, to keep him safe as it saw fit...and Duck had run off. It had been an exceptional situation, and he had to consider that when recalling it, but it had nearly ended in tragedy. Duck had suffered terrible harm, Jaskier had been wounded, and if he'd been unlucky enough that Geralt had not wandered by, he would have died.

He couldn't simply wish for Duck to solve his problems while he sat aside, safe and pampered. He had to help find solutions, even--especially in situations like this, because there was no one else to contribute. He owed Geralt his life, several times over in fact, and he knew Geralt had taken this job in order to return with a healer for Jaskier. Geralt could have suffered some tragedy, could need help, and Jaskier owed it to him to render aid. Jaskier knew he was not a total incompetent--he was clever and nimble...usually--why he'd even noticed a myriad of things that Geralt had missed entirely. Geralt hadn't even realized how clever his little bluebird truly was, so perhaps Jaskier could serve some purpose.

And, if Geralt was dead and Jaskier was about to ride to his own death, he would call Destiny a tart to her face as he perished.

Jaskier took a deep breath and steeled himself. 

"Roach, if you would?" He asked and reached to pet a hand on her long, lovely face. She stared at him but, after a moment of consideration, turned and knelt in the street. He hadn't planned on riding her, he would have been content to use her to stand again, but this was better. He managed to swing a leg over her without collapsing in pain--another improvement--and petted a hand over her neck.

"I don't suppose you recall where you took Geralt, do you, lovely?"

As it turned out, the bluebird wasn't Geralt's only clever animal companion. Roach was truly exceptional and, as it so happened, very fast when she was inclined to be. Jaskier had ridden horses before but, truly, none that were quite so energetic or hearty as she was. It took all of his attention to hold onto her once she turned around and started galloping out of Posada. He had to hope she knew where she was going because, honestly, he lacked the ability to ride and direct her at the same time.

The bluebird, convinced that this was a hunt (and it was, Jaskier supposed) darted up into the sky once they left Posada and silently surveyed the fields that spanned the length of _Dol Blathanna_. Jaskier did not know the calls that Geralt had trained it in, nor what commands might have corresponded with what sounds, but he had learned some of the creature's songs as they'd traveled up the mountain. He knew the leitmotif for Roach, for the grass, the little bugs it was excited to eat, and Geralt, which it sang constantly.

Jaskier whistled the short tune for Geralt and the bird fell back sharply but flapped and caught up again. Above, it whistled the same tune back and Jaskier had to hope it understood.


	15. Filavandrel

Geralt woke choking--he sputtered violently as liquid filled his mouth and nose. His throat and chest burned as he inadvertently inhaled a goodly amount of it--his heart jumped in his chest and his eyes flew open, wide but unseeing. He jerked forward on reflex, tried to curl in on himself, but his motion was halted sharply and pain bit into his upper arms. He strained hard against a rope wrapped across his chest. He nearly managed to knock the air out of himself and sagged back as he gasped for air. His vision swam and his head pounded in slow, powerful surges, in perfect time with his heart.

"Where the fuck am I?" Geralt growled and hearing his own voice made him aware of the high-pitched ringing in his ears. Pain curl in his head, just beneath his temples, and Geralt huffed, spitting on up some of the water he'd choked down.

The room was bleary, mostly because he was struggling to see through the water running down his face, but his eyes weren't behaving correctly either. It was circular, he could tell that much, and the walls were made of carved stone--no, they were carved from the stone. He was inside a cave...sort of. His brow creased and he looked up--there was ivy laced across the ceiling and a hot, unforgiving breeze trickled through the gaping windows cut through the wall.

The answer to his question was, apparently, a boot to his ribs. The kick was swift and strong enough that it drove a grunt out of him. When he didn't fall to one side or gasp in pain, the person--the woman who had kicked him let out a high, frustrated sound and promptly kicked him again. The second blow was markedly weaker--Geralt didn't even shift and she hissed once she'd withdrawn her foot.

"Careful, wouldn't want you to hurt yourself," Geralt said, and was struck across the face in response. Unlike the last two blows, this one was delivered with a weapon. Out of the corner of his eye it looked like the pommel of a sword. Felt like that too, but Geralt preferred visual confirmation. When it connected with his cheekbone, his head snapped to the side hard enough that it sent his vision rolling. It was truly nauseating.

"Shut up," the woman hissed and he heard as she walked around behind him, circling him slowly.

He was bound and, as adrenaline cleared his thoughts, he was able to identify where each binding was and how tightly it was strung. Whoever had tied him up hadn't realized what he was (or they were cocky and stupid). He'd only been tied with one rope around the chest, one at the wrist, and one at the ankle. He was tethered to something very solid, held by the line to his chest, but it didn't seem to connect to his hands.

He looked up as the woman stepped around him and into his line of sight. While he hadn't gotten a very good look at her when she'd surprised him in the field, he got a very good look then. 

She was an elf, broad in the shoulder and with woven leather armor. In her hand she had that iron club--not a sword, then. This was why he liked visual confirmation--and she was favoring her left leg as she moved to stand in front of him. He hummed as he watched her step closer, as she towered so she could look down her nose at him, as she tried to project an air of intimidation. It was almost funny, all things considered. It had been a very long time since someone had tried to intimidate him; he was a creature who hunted cursed abominations for a living and, while she looked like an angry warrior, she also didn't look keen on tearing his intestines out through his nose in the next five seconds.

Without the risk of that, was it really intimidation?

"Told you that you'd hurt yourself," Geralt said conversationally, as though his cheek wasn't bleeding from where the pommel had connected when she struck him.

She seethed and bore her teeth at him as her fury consumed her. Her whole frame went tense and her shoulders drew up. Geralt watched carefully as she moved, watched as she brought that club down and shifted its weight so she could swing it, watched the twist as she hefted it up at the last second and struck him hard just below his adam's apple.

That one hurt.

He was stubborn, though, and he managed to keep from doing more than drawing a sharp breath through his nose. The lack of reaction made her angrier than his speaking had, unfortunately, and she sneered as she flipped that club again. This time she struck him in the center of his forehead with the pommel. His head jerked back and, at the sudden throb that blow provoked, he did let out a pained grunt.

"Humans that talk back lose their tongues," she told him, her accent curling around her threat like the ivy on the wall.

"Well, good thing I'm not human, then," Geralt replied cheekily and she flipped her club again before swinging it in a full arc and striking him across the face on the backswing. That hit connected hard, splitting his damaged cheek open wider. The much heavier ball at the other end of the haft was what made that weapon dangerous and Geralt recognized the feel of it immediately--she'd used that to knock him out. Geralt's head snapped to the side with the force of her backswing. He was bleeding freely and, if the jagged feeling when he blinked that eye was any indication, she had fractured something.

"Lyfia, enough."

The voice was melodic and had the drawl of someone noble born. Geralt could hear the pride in that calm droning a mile away. The woman who had captured him moved back smoothly. She adopted a soldier's stance, fell into a casual rest, and stared ahead past Geralt. Her seething anger radiated off of her in waves, he could taste it even though the blood in his mouth, but it was plastered over with a thin veneer of decorum.

Geralt let his head sag forward and drew a deep breath through his nose. Blood dripped from his cheek onto the sandy floor of his cell...because that was absolutely what this was. He had no idea why he was prisoner but, given that they had decided to jump straight to torture, he had probably walked into a situation that was a bit more fraught than someone's missing wife. Geralt watched the floor and tried to will his vision still.

"What a pity, she was doing so well," Geralt said and huffed a short laugh as he spoke. His chest didn't hurt, but the smile pulled his eye and cheek--little bursts of pain ground against the side of his face, like sand trapped under his skin. 

"Do you relish pain so much that you must court it?"

Geralt, personally, had been entirely content to stare at the dirt floor until his vision calmed. Unfortunately, the elf addressing him had decided he needed to loom, just as the soldier had, and stepped right into Geralt's field of view. The boots he wore were nice, clean--looked like satin. He let out a disinterested grumble as he gave in and dragged his eyes up. Fancy leggings, a robe that was older than it should be, threadbare, but still too nice for a dusty cell. Compared to the woman in armor, this elf was jarringly clean and tidy. He was clearly in a position of power.

The face attached to the expensive clothes was about what Geralt expected. Sharp, elegant angles, fine golden hair, a haughty expression laced with mild judgment, he was the quintessential elven leader. Geralt had no strong aversion to anyone, no qualms about any race or nationality, so long as they had coin to pay him. He knew what it was like to be reviled for what he was. Despite his neutrality regarding elves, even he had to laugh as he the elf over. He looked like an artists rendition of what most humans guessed about elves, it was so dead on it was comical. His laugh came out as a derisive wheeze and it shook his shoulders. 

Unsurprisingly, the elf frowned at him.

"You're either very foolish or very brave," he said and Geralt stared at him with blank disinterest. "I find one is more common than the other when it comes to humans."

"Still not human." 

At Geralt's correction, the haughty elf let out a breath, a plosive, put upon sigh, and motioned a hand at his side. The woman, Lyfia, was around his side and swinging her weapon before Geralt could so much as roll his eyes. She caught him in the chest but, to her great consternation, his armor took most of the impact. He barely flinched. As was standard, at least when dealing with Lyfia, she then glowered, shifted the club, and hit him again in a place with less defense. He grunted as she struck him on the side, just under his last rib, with the narrower end of her club. 

That pain was sharp and sudden, a stab without the puncture, it was a nice change from the blunt force she'd been committed to thus far.

"Who are you?" The rich elf asked, all smooth tones and feigned patience.

He looked up at the elf and debated what the wisest course of action was. He clearly had no idea who or what Geralt was, which was just as well, but he had attacked him and taken him prisoner without provocation. If he didn't know what Geralt was, if that wasn't a factor in his abduction and torture, was this just par for the course? That was a dangerous precedent. Unfortunately, Geralt didn't have much to go on and had no idea why he was currently tied up and bleeding in this elf's presence. That, alone, did not make him inclined to answer questions.

Geralt disliked killing people. He wasn't a mercenary, an assassin, or a bodyguard, he was a _Witcher_. He killed monsters, it was what he had been built for. His purpose was protecting people from creatures, from cursed abominations, and he adhered to that. He disliked killing people--elf, human, dwarf, it didn't matter--it was never a fair fight. He was built to kill, to survive violence and overwhelm it...these people were not. He disliked killing, but he was markedly less fond of being killed. If this elf forced him to choose between the two eventualities, he would pick the former.

The woman was a soldier, trained in combat and deadly with her weapon. He could see her training it in the way she moved, in the easy control she had over the weight and balance of that club. She had killed people before, had tortured, and wouldn't hesitate a moment if the haughty fuck in front of her gave an order. She would mutilate him without question or hesitation, if she heard an order to do it. She was too slow to win in straight combat against Geralt, and she wouldn't take him by surprise again, but she was a fairer fight than most.

The elf in the satin slippers was used to command and had a real edge of superiority to him. He was angry, he was powerful, and he was respected. Those three together meant that he was probably a prick, but that was a guess. Geralt had no real opinions about him apart from initial distaste. He didn't seem like the pleasant sort of leader, the sort who went around helping people, even his own people. He had loyalty and gold but little else. Unless he was a sorcerer, he wouldn't be able to survive if Geralt had to cut through this place.

"Queen Calanthe of Cintra," Geralt answered, a mild but vicious smile curling his lips. If they didn't know him by reputation, or by description, then there was no reason to give them any idea what he was capable of. It would be harder to escape if they increased the security or the number of bonds that held him.

"Lyfia," the leader droned and sighed. The sound had an air of paternalism to it. Geralt half expected him to start musing about how the Witcher was bringing this on himself and, oh, it could be easier if he cooperated.

Geralt's head snapped forward as the soldier hooked her club around the back of his neck and jerked down. Her knee snapped up as she jerked his head down and she drove her kneecap into the bridge of his nose. He heard her surprised hiss as the blow connected. His vision blanked a moment but, apart from that and the rush of pain that sparked behind his eyes, it wasn't so bad. He heard her step back on her leg and falter, her tight breathing was soft but audible. Sure, his nose was bleeding, but it didn't matter.

Unfortunately, goading them had a cost. They were quickly starting to realize that simple violence wasn't going to work on him.

He needed a distraction.

"So, you're digging up bones, but only some of them. Is there a queue or are you grinding them up for rituals?" Geralt mused and, after that strike to his face, sounded higher and more nasal than before. It was less intimidating but, really, it didn't matter. These bruises and abrasions would heal in hours.

The elves both looked down at him in disgust as he asked his question. It was a cruel rumor about them, something spread by humans who wanted excuses to feel better about killing children, but it was a deeply effective distraction from his own resilince. The soldier, Lyfia, spat on him and hissed something in Elder. Geralt's smirk maintained.

"Not clearing the mass graves, just poking at the edges of the valley? Seems like you don't _really_ want those bones back with terrible desperation," he continued and, for his trouble, the soldier hooked her club under his chin and pulled his head back, exposing his throat to their leader. Geralt didn't give her the satisfaction of reacting to her handling. She seethed something hushed at the elf in front of him but got no response. The elf in front of him just glowered, disgust open and obvious on his face. That was a familiar expression--the look of hatred he wore was a consuming one, honed over long years.

Geralt balled his hands into fists and prepared to break the rope holding them if that elf went for the ceremonial looking sword at his hip. Lyfia had his throat bared, she was clearly waiting, but the elf before him just stared, contempt pouring off of him and filling the room.

"How quaint," he said, his tone carefully measured and restrained. "Brave men are uncommon, but you definitely aren't a fool, are you?"

"I get called to many things to remember them all," Geralt replied, his voice strained as Lyfia's club pressed harder on his throat. She couldn't choke him out, she didn't have the endurance to outlast him, but he thought she might give it a try. "Is it still grave robbing if they're your own graves?"

Geralt was casting about in the dark as he goaded the elf. He had seen holes and pits, had found a bone in one, but he had no proof the elves were digging them up. He had no proof that they were involved in anything in the valley. The farmer hadn't been helpful and the apothecary had been concerned only with finding his wife. He didn't know if the elves had stolen grain, and he didn't know if they had been involved with the damage to the silos, or if there was no connection at all. All he knew was what he had seen in Posada and what he saw now, everything else was a guess, and he disliked leaning this heavily on guesses.

"No, it is not," the elf told him and something in his tone was different. He hated Geralt, that was a decision he'd settled on, but Geralt had misspoken somewhere and given away what he didn't know. There was a curiosity in the rich elf's eyes, like he desired to dissect Geralt and the only hindrance that remained that Geralt's drawing breath.

"The part I can't quite understand is the kidnapping," Geralt admitted and blamed at once. It was a casual accusation but it struck true and the curiosity in the elf's eyes was wiped away and replaced with barely restrained fury. He exhaled sharply and stepped closer, his hand reaching out and gripping Geralt by the chin. He tried to dig his fine, regal fingers in with bruising force, but Geralt didn't flinch. He wasn't strong enough to properly execute this tactic and they both knew it.

"Believe me, human, I would have preferred slaughter but your people have never been bastions of honor," he said, cold and full of terrible promise. Geralt was sure, after that sentence, that this elf did know how to wield that sword and had absolutely killed with it before. "You have stolen so often from us that I felt it was only fair to claim something in return. Tell me, were you hired to retrieve her or slaughter her, brute? The second would be easier. Accomplish two goals then in place of one."

The fancy elf was livid. 

He stared into Geralt's face as he spoke and Geralt had the distinct feeling that the elf was envisioning flaying him. He had struck a nerve with that question and, at once, the elf had given him so much more information than he'd had before. The woman who'd been kidnapped was here and she was alive. Her death would somehow fuel someone's agenda, which...Fuck, why could nothing be simple? Geralt held his expression flat, if unavoidably tight, and stared back at the elf before him. His hands relaxed in their bonds and he resigned himself to more pain. With the elf's admissions, Geralt's priorities had shifted dramatically--he couldn't cut a swath through this place and escape if they had another hostage (and especially not given that finding the hostage was his job). Her safety was a much greater priority than his comfort. 

She was his first responsibility which meant he had to stay.

If they had treated her to the same welcome that he had received, that could complicate their escape, but he would have far fewer qualms about slaying either of the elves in front of him.

Elves weren't monsters, not as a rule, but they weren't exempt from the category either.

"Not a human," Geralt replied and his casual response earned him a disgusted look. 

The elf shoved his chin back and withdrew his hand. He wiped it on a handkerchief he pulled from his belt and looked at the soldier behind him, expression bland and vaguely reproachful. She responded immediately and drew her club back from where it rested on his neck. He sucked in a deep breath just in time for her to strike him against the side of his head again. The open wound on his cheek split farther and the fracture cracked audibly as his head jerked sideways. Even Geralt hissed at that one.

"Did they tell you who I am, what this place is, I wonder?"

The musing tone was almost as annoying at the pain in his skull and Geralt sighed heavily as he spoke. The soldier prodded him hard in the back for the noise and then stepped away, circling again with the leader inside the perimeter.

"Oh please tell me, I'm just so curious," Geralt deadpanned and the elf's eyes narrowed.

"Maybe you are a fool."

"You speak to Filavandrel, _human_!" the soldier snapped as she rounded to his other side. "Lord of Dol Blathanna and King of the Elves."

"Fantastic."

"How many were hired? Are you working alone?" This time it was the soldier who asked the questions. She barked them at him and her club shifted in her hands as she moved. She lifted it and pressed the heavy ball against the pit of his neck. Couldn't kill him, but she might be able to swing it and crack his jaw if she tried. Geralt growled at her. He could give her a flip answer but it wouldn't help him. He could give them an overblown answer, but Filavandrel, King of the Elves was watching him with a careful eye. It would be best to lie, but lie in the realm of possibility. He was battered enough, they probably wouldn't question it.

"Just a handful, me and a few of my closest friends."

The woman threatening him didn't even bat an eye before barking her next question. This one had both elves on edge and Geralt wondered why.

"Who hired you?"

This answer was flip by necessity and both elves leveled truly dark looks at him as he smiled to deliver it.

"King Roegner."

The elf soldier let out a low growl and looked back at her King. Filavandrel sighed and nodded to her. The last thing Geralt saw was him turning on his heel and walking toward the door. Her club came down against his skull before the elf crossed the threshold and, all at once, everything went black.


	16. Bard

Jaskier had no idea what one looked for when trying to track someone down. None whatsoever.

Roach had taken him as far as she could. Sadly, when they reached their destination, there was precious little indication of where Geralt had gone off to. The countryside was nice, if a little wilted and brown at this time of year, and the fields of grain were quite lovely...where there were fields of grain, that is. Several had been tilled under, there were a few that had been cut and awaited tilling, and those were...less lovely. He'd passed more than a few young men with with sickles and baskets as they'd raced down the road. They'd been moving through the fields, headed toward the far ridge, clearing wheat in gradual lines. 

Jaskier didn't envy them the work. At the very least, the cool breeze had picked up as the afternoon crept onward. Why, by the time Roach had slowed, a fine grey layer of thin, wispy clouds had dulled the brilliance of the sun. The bard imagined that would make both harvesting work and his searching easier--being baked by the sun was never a truly appealing prospect, not in his experience, and he was glad to be denied a clear summer's day.

Roach idled as she rode past the farmhouse, slowing to a gradual trot and then a slow meandering walk. The little bird was high above and Jaskier considered the area around him, uncertain how he should proceed but knowing, full well, that he needed to be quick about deciding. Geralt needed help and he needed to be there as soon as he possibly could. 

He'd half hoped that he would ride out and trip over Geralt en route; that he would just find Geralt lying in the road, dazed, and watch as he got himself up, dusted himself off, and charged off to battle. Jaskier had never been _that_ lucky, even when his luck was good, and there was no Witcher in sight.

He'd seen people track things, hunters and the like, and he felt he knew the very gist of how they operated. They smelled markings, looked for broken branched, and tracked prints in the dirt. When he looked down at the road there were so many footsteps and so many hoof-prints that he couldn't hardly pick them apart--

Well, except for one set with very nicely shaped heels and angled toes. That pair of prints was made with a rather expensive, court styled shoe. Jaskier had owned a few with similar soles when he lived in Oxenfurt, but had given them up when he'd started traveling. They were striking, yes, but made for terrible pains over long distances. They weren't worth it, no matter how stylish they looked.

And that, that whole line of thought, had been an absolute waste of time.

Jaskier sighed and adjusted his grip on Roach's reins. This whole attempt frustrated him terribly. He couldn't hunt by smell as Duck did, he couldn't hunt by sight like the bird, or follow tracks like any other competent mountaineer. How was he supposed to find Geralt? Jaskier's only skills rested in singing and conversation, even riding Roach was a challenge for him.

"Oh--" Jaskier nearly swore--he had started doing it again, searching as though he were someone else. Idiot, he thought he'd learned this lesson already. He hadn't the skills to start following tracks like a road map but, luckily, he wasn't hunting a monster or his dinner, he was hunting a man. More than that, Jaskier was hunting a very recognizable man who couldn't be missed at two hundred paces. Geralt was not subtle and, if the sheer number of stories about him counted for anything, people loved to talk about strange scary people that wandered through their home town.

"Excuse me," Jaskier called as he spotted a farm worker ahead. He nudged Roach in the flank and she obliged him by gradually ambling forward. 

The farm worker stopped when he called, sickle in hand and handkerchief raised to wipe his brow. He had been crossing the little dirt road ahead, walking toward the field of wheat that so many workers were toiling along harvesting. He stood and waited for Jaskier in the middle of the road. He was a slim fellow, tall and lanky, dressed in green with both his sleeves and pant legs rolled up. He looked like he'd been bent and harvesting since before dawn, which was to say: he looked exhausted enough that he probably would have taken any excuse to stand still and enjoy the breeze a moment. 

Jaskier, fortunately, had quite a lot of experience providing people with excuses to do thing that they already wanted to do.

Jaskier smiled brilliantly as he rode up but the effect of his charm was undercut when Roach kept on walking, ambling past the worker at an almost laughably slow gait. Jaskier shot the man a surprised look and then had to give Roach's reins a bit of a tug to make her stop--it was not an elegant maneuver and the farm worker snorted as he eyed the bard. Jaskier laughed in kind, nervous but genial about his own awkwardness, and shrugged.

"Can you tell that I don't ride often?" Jaskier asked and leaned back in the saddle a bit. "My apologies, I'd climb down to chat but I was injured traveling."

"That's why you're borrowing a horse, then?" the man asked, bemused. There wasn't a hint of impatience on him; Jaskier had guessed correctly about how he longed for a break.

"Aah, that obvious she isn't mine?" Jaskier asked and the man snorted again before he tossed the sickle in his hand into the basket that hung from his belt. He settled his hands on his hips and cocked a brow at Jaskier. He seemed friendly enough.

"Jaskier, traveling bard," he introduced himself and bent as far as he could, arm extended. The man shook his hand, pleased about the gesture, and his brows lifted with recognition. "Oh--does my fame precede me?"

"Only if _'Fame'_ is a nickname for the farrier's girl, Siona," he said slyly with a smile. "Don't think she stopped telling your story last night. Girl was practically floating along you charmed her so much."

"Ah, lovely Siona--such a sweet, pretty sprite with such a...protective and doting father," Jaskier sighed her name but paused, just slightly, as he recalled the huge man who had threatened him. The man chuckled and the smile that had crossed his face persisted. Clearly he was also aware of Siona's father and his...propensity for stern words with suitors. They had something in common and, to the bard's delight, it seemed as though he had befriended him. Or, at least, they were friendly enough that he might help Jaskier along if asked nicely.

"Aye, he is at that. What are you doing out here, Jaskier, traveling injured bard? Need wildflowers badly enough you borrowed a horse?"

"Oh, I would not complain about a day spent meandering through wildflowers," Jaskier said and let out a huff. He would not. It would be a nice change. The worker let out a hum of general agreement but remained otherwise silent as he waited for Jaskier's answer.

"No, I rode out here after a very rude fellow returned this lovely lady to the tavern," Jaskier explained and patted Roach's neck. At first, he thought he might have offended the worker, but the flicker of annoyance that dashed across the man's face didn't seem to be targeted at Jaskier or Roach. Ah, the solidarity of mutual distaste. "Her owner is the man I traveled with--the one from that story Siona was telling."

"Oh!" The man's eyes widened a bit with recognition and he lifted a hand to gesture at Jaskier and, in turn, the horse he was astride. "The Witcher with the shiny sword, yeah?"

Jaskier nodded and the man reached up to scrub a hand through his hair as he thought.

"I thought I saw a big, scary looking cu--er _man_ , that is, walking round the pond yesterday. Was done with that side, though, by the time he came through." Jaskier's heart leapt into his throat as the worker gave a thoughtful but slightly meandering account of Geralt.

"White hair, huge, wears a lot of black?"

"That's 'im." The man snapped his fingers and nodded. He gave Jaskier a speculative sidelong look, then, and clicked his tongue. "I fucked off for a drink after finishing there, but Rolf was already starting on the long rows by the wash. I'd bet a pint he saw your Witcher."

The man adjusted his belt and waved at Jaskier as he turned and started down the road. Jaskier, with much effort, managed to communicate to Roach that he had wanted to turn around and follow. She seemed to think the very concept was absurd but, when he begged, she finally gave in. They caught up to the worker and Jaskier made idle conversation with him as they traveled. (His name was Donnic, he had lived in Posada all his life, he hated harvesting wheat.) He asked quite a lot about the story Siona had been telling and Jaskier was happy to give him every (slightly embellished) detail, so long as they were searching.

Rolf, they found cutting wheat in a row very near the edge of the fields. Though initially suspicious as Jaskier rode up through the cut stalks, he reacted with delight when Donnic introduced him. Apparently Siona had spread his story to everyone who had visited the tavern and, surprising no one, she was very well liked. They'd all listened to the whole thing every time she told it and her excitement had become their own, they were delighted to meet him. They wasted a few minutes as Rolf asked him about the horse, about his leg injury, and then about the Nekker. (Jaskier felt a surge of vindication when the workers had pulled the same face he had, disgusted by the name of the creatures.)

They had a lively, pleasant conversation while the cool breeze cut through the valley. Above them the thin layer of clouds had thickened and now spared them the full harshness of the sun. Really, the only way the situation would have been more pleasant was if the lovely Siona had appeared. Jaskier said as much and both men had hummed fond agreements.

As suspected, Rolf had been around when Geralt arrived at the farmhouse. He had overheard snatches of the farmer chatting with the Witcher, as he directed him to the damage in the fields. Rolf even recalled seeing Geralt as he moved field to field, looking over the holes that the farmer had complained about.

"He's a mean, bullheaded idiot," Rolf bit out. It was clearly an opinion he had expressed before, his voice was laced with an old sort of resignation. He was used to thinking that particular thought. Donnic had simply nodded along with a hum of agreement.

"Spiteful too."

"...The farmer?" Jaskier hazarded, assuming they weren't talking about Geralt.

"Aye," Rolf said and Donnic let out the sort of tired sigh that spoke of years of irritation.

"Came from the other side of the Kingdom, made some money in salt and wanted his own land," Donnic explained and Jaskier listened, rapt. "Bought this bit from the farmer before him. Tore out the orchard and planted wheat."

"Used to be apples," Rolf grumbled. "But they're hard to grow, take too much time and effort for someone who isn't a farmer. Used to be Posada overflowed with apples, couldn't eat them fast enough. The elves even liked them, used to clear the edges of the field, back when I was a boy."

"They picked fruit?" Jaskier asked and shook his head--whether they were hired workers or not was beside the point. He hadn't heard any mention of elves. "Elves?"

"Yeah, they live up in the mountains," Donnic said and jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the rocky rise just beyond the fields. "Last farmer didn't care that they took so much from the orchard, weren't enough of us around to pick everything anyway. Better that then have them go to waste."

"This one's not like he was, Merrick is mean. He hates those elves with a real fury," Rolf complained. "Bastard went out of his way to send your Witcher lookin at the holes. Cruel if you ask me."

"Cruel?" Jaskier asked and his confusion must have been obvious. Both men looked a bit sad but their rapport had grown as they chatted. The reluctance on their faces faded after a moment and they explained.

"Maybe you can talk your Witcher out of butcherin' the lot," Rolf said a bit hesitantly and Jaskier's brows rose. "Elves are the ones diggin up the fields. When it was trees and respectful distance, without people walking over the grounds all day long, they weren't bothered. Now that we have to hike back and forth all the time, tendin and cuttin and tillin, it's made them mad. So they come and dig, but it pisses off Merrick and he holds a grudge."

"Don't care for them much, myself," Donnic admitted quietly and his face went stony. "Don't care for elves...but walking over graves all day and night isn't right. It's not respectful."

"You want to get cursed, bard? That's how you get cursed, no question, and Merrick? That asshole's not worth gettin cursed over."

Jaskier was absolutely stunned. He looked at both men, eyes wide and sad, and then looked down at the field below Roach. She shuffled idly and Jaskier was, for just a second, terrified that he'd see a skull float up to the surface. Nothing did, of course, but the potential, that it could happen, had him looking away with haste.

"I thought the elves gifted this land to Aedirn?" Jaskier asked and Donnic laughed.

"Not hardly, but they mostly left us alone so long as we left them alone. Nobody was all the way happy about it, but it was settled and we time went by peaceably enough...least until the trees were cut down and Merrik, that cunt, started put--"

"Hush!" Rolf interrupted sharply and startled both Jaskier and Donnic. The glower he shot at the other worker was sharp but Donnic waved a hand at him.

"Oh, piss off, you think he won't be mad already? Might as well complain while I can."

"That Witcher, Don, he ain't known for doing things halfway, if you catch my meaning," Rolf warned.

"I won't say a word about who told me," Jaskier assured them and leaned forward, bracing his arms on Roach's neck. Jaskier was certain Geralt wasn't the sort of person who would attack farm workers for any reason, least of all giving out information, but he wasn't about to start arguing with them when they had told him so much. The two men weren't entirely convinced that Jaskier could protect their names, despite their rapport, and Jaskier sighed. "On _Melitele's_ name, gentlemen, I'm just looking for him. He went missing and I owe him a life-debt or two. I can't just let him vanish, so I have to ask about everything, but I don't have to mention who told me what."

They looked at Jaskier for a few minutes, silent and grim, and the bard felt disappointment settle in his gut. He couldn't fault them for fearing their employer, especially if he had become notorious for vindictive retaliation, but it made Jaskier's task much harder. Jasker sat back and smiled at them, inclining his head, but as he thanked them for their help and conversation, they relented. Donnic was the one who spoke, but Rolf stepped up to keep him from leaving.

"We didn't tell you," Donnic muttered sharply. "But the silo hasn't been fixed in near a year. Everybody knows they're taking grain from it, won't nothing grow in the mountains and they don't trade with us...well, Merrick, he's got it in for thieves...and, like we said, he hates them. He started tainting what we keep there."

"When I left, the Butcher was still walking the fields...but Merrick angered those elves and there's not a man out here who hasn't seen shapes move through the wheat or heard angry whispering."

"Shit," Jaskier cursed and both men nodded in solemn agreement. There wasn't much to converse about after that, (topics like desecrated graves, and possibly starving, poisoned elves tend to really bring down the mood,) so Jaskier thanked the pair for their time and their help. Sincerely, he was very grateful, and he swore himself to secrecy before they walked off. Rolf told him to be careful, even as he gestured to a thin path that the animals used to climb the rocky mountainside. Donnic shot him a tight but encouraging look and plodded away down the dusty road.

Jaskier stared at the rising mountains and frowned. The clouds above were growing thicker by the hour. The sky was a heavy grey; the light was diffuse and bland enough that it was hard to tell what time it really was, but he knew the sun would set soon.. He didn't want to be trapped in the mountains at night, that would be terrible, but he couldn't justify riding back, knowing that Geralt was probably up there...being held captive...by very, very angry elves.

There was nothing for it. He had to move forward. 

Jaskier swallowed the bile that rose in the back of his throat and urged Roach forward toward the path.

"Come on, my lovely, let's find our Witcher."


	17. Prisoners

When Geralt came to it was sudden and unexpected but, at the very least, he wasn't choking or trying to spit up water. He went from black senseless space to full consciousness so quickly that it took time for the rest of him to catch up. 

Geralt's vision floated as he stared, drifted back and forth, and a shadow lagged behind the shapes he saw. His aches and pains lingered, throbbing and insistent, and he let out a low, unhappy growl. He tasted harts-horn in the back of his throat, stuck to the back of it where it would linger. He blinked hard as he tried to focus through the injuries, drew a sharp breath and then another through his nose, but those only drove the harts-horn deeper down his throat--a thin hand reached to brace his jaw and Geralt jerked his head away sharply.

He couldn't smell anything through the concoction they'd used to wake him. He hadn't even realized someone was in the room. His ears were throbbing but the high whine that had rung through them earlier had settled.

When he cracked an eye again he had regained some of his faculties, enough to recognize what he was looking at. He was still in his cell but the room was dark, save for a single point of candlelight. His hands were irritatingly numb and he flexed his fingers--his bonds creaked ominously but he didn't strain them. Not yet. The person who had touched his face reached in again and Geralt growled.

"You should have let me sleep it off," Geralt grumbled and peered off to the side without turning his head. He could feel pain radiating down his face and neck, he was certain that turning would be a poor idea. 

The person who'd reached for him was slim and clad in a dark, reddish dress. It was a young woman, though her features were hard to pick out in his peripheral vision. The candle was behind her and she knelt next to him, a damp rag in hand. She offered him a small smile, he thought, and paused. Her hand hovered a short distance from his cheek.

"This will sting," she warned and pressed the rag against his cheek. Geralt grunted as she did--yes, that bone was broken and it hadn't yet healed. He hummed, low and warning, as she wiped at his cheek.

"Sting isn't the word I'd use," Geralt told her and his tone was testy enough that her touch softened as he spoke. He couldn't see her well enough to gauge whether she was a potential ally of his or someone who served Filavandrel and he needed to be cautious until he found the old woman.

She chased the careful prodding of her fingers with the damp rag in her other hand. The water was cool but the fabric of the rag was not particularly forgiving. It felt harsh and scraping over the tender stretches of skin and snagged on his stubble as she moved against the grain of it. She went slowly but he had no real, enduring sort of grime on him. It wasn't long before she'd wiped away all the blood on his face.

Something about her face changed, the dark shapes of her eyes and mouth shifted in the corner of his eye, and she muttered a soft, questioning noise. Her fingers grazed the tenderest spot of his cheek and he grunted again, but her confusion won out over her concern for the delicacy of her touch. Geralt listened as she set the rag aside, as the bloody water in the dish sloshed, and hissed as she lifted her candle right next to his face. The split in his vision, the lingering shapes, were far worse with the light nearby. He had to close his eyes as the flickering yellow flame made his vision swim.

He heard her move--her dress rustled as she shifted around to sit in front of him. Light danced in front of his eyes and he could feel his headache spreading the longer she held it up. Her fingers touched and prodded and, eventually, she had to set the candle down again so that she could use both hands. When Geralt felt both on him, he cracked his eyes open again and took a good look at her.

She was young, but her features were the sort that hid age well. Her whole face was slim and smooth, without pronounced jutting cheeks or brows, with a pointed chin that sat shallow. She could have been anywhere between an old child to a young grandmother and, at least in this light, Geralt had no idea which was more likely. Her eyes and hair were brown, her skin looked tan, and, most notably:

She was not an elf.

"That's broken," she said in a low whisper, her whole attention focused between the places her hands sat against his face. 

She framed his cheekbone, shielded one eye with her stretched hand, and the other shifted down to turn his face, just so, by nudging his jaw. As Geralt had predicted, shifting his head resulted in shooting pain down his neck, but he restrained his reaction to a flinch and an exhale. If she noticed it, she was too enraptured by the state of his cheek to to say anything.

"But it's barely bruised except for the split...your face should be swollen to bursting. How--?"

He gritted his teeth as she prodded and stretched his skin tight over the cracked bone. He could feel the swelling, could feel where she was stretching the place his skin had split, but the rest was merely tender. He watched her as she stared, baffled beyond reason by the state of his face. She was human, which he hadn't expected, and the longer he looked, the more details he could make out, even through the haze and strange shadows that plagued his vision. She was dirty, the area below her eyes was darkened, and there was a fading bruise on her forehead. 

She had the hunted look of a prisoner or a slave.

Had the elves kidnapped other healers? 

Had they taken other women? 

Why hadn't the farmer or the apothecary mentioned them if they had?

"I don't understand," she apologized and released the tension she held on his cheek, lowering the hand that blocked his vision. Her fingers brushed below the wound and she used her free hand to retrieve the damp cloth again. 

She definitely didn't have the bearing or size to wield any serious weapon. It was possible that she'd been sent to torture him, next. Lyfia had failed to even distract Geralt with her iron club; this could have been another attempt with a different strategy. Somehow he doubted it, Filavandrel hadn't seemed like the sort who would hire humans, even for tasks like this. But, if she did intend to torture him, he would wager equal odds that she either used poisons or knives and Geralt had never been terribly concerned with either.

"I'm not human, I heal fast," Geralt told her, because it was certainly not secret. He'd said it to Filavandrel enough times that he'd hoped someone had heard him.

With the rag in hand she reached for his face again. Her eyes darted sideways to from his cheek and Geralt knew the very instant she glanced his eyes. She sucked in a sharp breath and went very still, frozen in place by a wash of terror. He couldn't smell anything but harts-horn but he didn't need to smell it, he could see it in the widening of her eyes and the fine tremor that crept into her hands. 

She had not come to torture him. 

The elves hadn't known who or what he was, but this woman did. He could see the way her eyes moved, the panic that shifted behind them--she might've even known his name. Which, unfortunately, meant that she was another prisoner he had to free.

"You're a Witcher," she breathed out in a rush and her hands snapped back, drawn away like his mutations were contagious. She didn't lower them, didn't have the presence of mind to settle herself, so her arms hovered awkwardly. Every muscle of her tensed, ready to run. He could even see her pulse beating in her neck...but she didn't shout. 

For all her terror, she hadn't tried to call for help.

Geralt waited and stared at her, watched her as she watched him, and the silence stretched until it was excruciating. Her arms tired and she lowered them gradually, as though he might object to the movement. When he didn't, her eyes darted to the door and then back to him. He watched her consider the state of things and, after another, longer glance at the door, she leaned closer to him.

She moved like he was a snake, poised to strike, and...Geralt felt that was fair.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, her tone little more than a hushed whisper, breathed across scant inches. 

She clearly didn't pose a threat to him, not directly, but Geralt wasn't entirely certain she could be treated as an ally. He hadn't the faintest idea who she was or where she came from, and that was a problem. He was silent a moment; the room was so quiet that his breathing and the candle were the two loudest sounds. He wasn't here for her, that wasn't his job, but if the elves had taken her from somewhere else, he would save her too.

"Are there other prisoners?" Geralt asked and nervousness darted across her face. "Other captives?"

"I'm not sure," she admitted gradually, her voice a bit small, but more audible than her last whisper. "This place is large and...I've not seen most of it."

Geralt hummed quietly as he thought and the woman shrank back a little when he finally broke eye contact with her. He heard the tremor in her hand as she moved, idly, and gathered the items she'd brought into his cell. The wind that blew through the window was still warm and smelled like sun-baked stone and wood ash. He had no way to tell what time it was, but it was quiet--he'd hazard it was likely very late rather than very early.

"How many soldiers have you seen?" Geralt asked and looked back. She was holding bottles, little glass ones that weren't dissimilar from those he used, and she jumped slightly as he addressed her. She made a small sound and shook her head. She turned her eyes to the bottles and squinted at the markings on them in the candlelight.

"I don't know. I've seen two dozen, maybe?" she said and, with fumbling fingers, set all but one of the bottles in her lap. She struggled to open the bottle in her hands but her fingers refused to obey. Eventually, she gave up, and her voice sounded both strained and sad--she was worried he would be furious with her? Did she only know Witchers by reputation, then? That wasn't so unusual.

"There are far more people than soldiers--I, I'm sorry, I didn't know you were a Witcher...I don't even know if I have anything that _can_ help you."

"You don't," Geralt rumbled at her as she clasped her hands together tightly around that bottle. The tight grip kept them steady, but the worried frown on her face spoke volumes.

"It's fine," he assured her and her fingers flexed against the bottle. He debated asking her if his pouch had been left on his belt, if they'd been foolish enough to leave him with his potions, but if it was he wouldn't have wasted anything by taking it now. If it wasn't, if they'd taken it, he had no reason to make his desire for his potions known.

"Most of it will be gone by morning," he added and cleared his throat. Coughing did little but drive the taste of harts-horn back into the forefront of his mind.

"Is there anything--?" She looked nearly desperate to help him. That made sense to the Witcher. If she'd been taken by a small force of elven soldiers, a Witcher wasn't an ideal hero, but he represented a very real chance of escape.

"Water," he requested and she nodded emphatically. Her nervous energy radiated off of her and Geralt watched as she gathered up the items she had brought, held them in her skirt as she stood, and moved to the door. She knocked hard on it, hitting the wood with the length of her forearm, and Geralt listened to the way that sound echoed.

Long hall with no ends or ends open to the air. No guards were stationed by the door, which probably meant they'd be standing at the ends of the passage, facing out. He couldn't tell if there were other doors, his pulse was still in his head, but it didn't matter. They were something to be dealt with later, when he could see straight and he'd listened and memorized the rotations of the guards.

It took a few moments for someone to come and retrieve the woman who'd been sent to clean him up. He couldn't see more than the edge of the door as it swung inward, but that wasn't a problem either. The woman left and Geralt waited and listened as best he could--this would have been easier if that soldier hadn't been so keen on smashing his face--but the sound of her footsteps faded quickly and the elf who opened the door he'd barely heard at all. 

Geralt waited and listened while she was gone and, very gradually, the candle at his side burned down. The longer he waited, the lower the light became, and the more obvious it was that she wasn't going to return. That, unfortunately, meant two things: First, he was not going to have a drink to clear the harts-horn out of his throat...and second, she had probably been taken before Filavandrel to be questioned about everything they'd said.

The light burned out and Geralt hummed as he closed his eyes. 

He knew his head would be clear by morning, then he could complete this job.


	18. Fear

These mountains were harsher than the range that lead up to Posada, or the terrain was, at least. Between the two, the other mountains were worse, by far, but those had also been teeming with dreadful rat-gremlins that had wanted to devour him. It was hard to be worse than that but, then again, the night was young and Jaskier knew he was dreadfully unlucky. He had been tempting fate since he had wandered out of the tavern today, and he expected his hubris was about ready to catch him up. It wasn't worth dwelling on, though, not while they had a rather grand task ahead of them.

He let out a shaky exhale and considered Roach as he hobbled, very slowly, at her side.

He'd been riding her at first, when they'd come up through the hills to the mountainside, but the longer they'd traveled, the more nervous Jaskier had become. The way the mountains rose up, in sharp plateaus and pillars of rounded rock, with hidden ledges, narrow steps, and little more than scrub to hide them? Sitting high on Roach's back had felt like inviting an arrow or fifty to take up residence in his chest. It had made him too nervous to think and had made Roach unhappy as he fidgeted on her back. He'd hopped off once the anxiety had become truly intolerable and from that point forward, he had walked. Unfortunately, because he was paranoid about becoming a pin-cushion, they were limited in the speed they could travel. He dictated their pace and Jaskier, sadly, could not hobble uphill in darkness with anything real intent. 

Needless to say: they moved slowly.

Mindnumbingly slowly.

Jaskier felt terrible about that the whole climb and spent hours stewing in the sensation. Any delay was more time that Geralt could have been suffering...but, he had to remind himself, they also hadn't figured out just where they were headed, either. When the mountain plateaued again, some distance up the narrow trail, he had no idea what he would find there--if it would be another hairpin turn and a steep path, or if it would be a wide set of rolling hills, or if it would be utterly overgrown with magical trees and vines. Anything was likely and he had no idea how to plan for that. 

The terrain was a mystery and beyond that? They had to find the elves. All the tales he knew of elves were...well, they'd had some creative liberties taken. 

Extensive creative liberties.

The farm workers had been positive that the elves lived in these mountains but, beyond that, they'd been rather sparing with the details. They had, of course, given him so much else that he couldn't be angry with them...but a hint would have been appreciated. The color of their tents? What shape they liked their roofs to be? Whether they lived in the trees like half the songs Jaskier had heard? Or whether they lived in golden palaces like the other half of the songs he had heard? Did they keep dogs? Wildcats? Geese? Should he have brought along a spear to fight off boars? Did they live beneath ground in sunken cities that opened to the sky--

His imagination had run away with him, clearly, but it became harder and harder to keep himself on task as they walked. He had little to ponder, and few feelings to indulge in, as they shuffled up the narrow, rocky path. If he didn't focus on something, he might have looked down and Jaskier couldn't begin to entertain that idea.

The bluebird had remained above them for a while. It kept pace as they meandered up the hill, flitting about as it would, but it never abandoned them. As night fell, it had moved closer, flown lower, and had made more noise with its little wings. A time after that, it had taken to landing on Roach's saddle every so often and tweeting quietly at Jaskier before fluttering back up and away. He hadn't the faintest idea how well it saw in the dark, whether it had the same limitations as a normal bird or if it was superior in some odd, magical way. It seemed to be getting along well enough, and it checked in with him every few minutes, so he hadn't invested too much energy into worrying about it.

The bard could see the vague shapes that jutted up from the blackness of the ground, but only just. It was lucky for him that he had Roach to brace against, and that there had hardly been a tree or shrub that stood higher than his knee. He trampled through the odd bit of brush every few feet and while the brush annoyed him, it hadn't sent him sprawling yet.

Of the lot of them, Jaskier wagered that Roach was the least affected by the murky dimness of night. She walked along with absolute confidence and Jaskier followed her lead without hesitation. If anyone was trustworthy, Roach was trustworthy, and he reminded her of this, softly, as they trudged ever onward. 

Unfortunately, they still had no idea what they were looking for apart from _'elves'_ , which really didn't help him pick out shapes or directions to travel in.

The farm workers had said that the elves lived in the mountains and, Jaskier reasoned, it was likely that they wanted to live at the top of them. If they had a choice of where to build homes, they would have wanted to enjoy the view, wouldn't they? It was what he would have done and that was the best measure of reasonable behavior he had.

As it so happened, Jaskier's concerns about finding the elves were utterly overblown. The workers had not needed to give him a map, or a hint, because both were completely unnecessary. When they finally crested the path and arrived at the last plateau, they walked out into a great, wide space with a host of looming shapes--scattered trees and thick brush--and filled with the sounds of wind and rustling grass. The murky grey haze of night was a little brighter here, the trickling light from the overcast sky fell a little kinder on this place than it had in the mountain's shadow. 

Jaskier sighed happily as some semblance of his sight returned to him. 

The little bird tweeted urgently above him, had called a quick and sharp cry of alert and, while Jaskier didn't recognize the tune it sang, he didn't have to look far to see what she had clearly spotted. In the distance, beyond the trees and near the rise of the stone pillars, shone a smattering of glittering lights. They were lovely gems, reddish and gold, and they flickered beautifully against the darkness. They twinkled like stars through the brush.

He had never been happier to see a torch.

Jaskier walked toward into the brush and toward the distant torches without hesitation. Seeing lights in the distance gave him a rush of hope and, with that, he had felt a surge of energy. He had been anxious for hours, concerned about how he might formulate a plan to find their city. He had been baffled wondering how he would begin to track a party of elves. He had gone this way and that, wondering his way in circles, but those lights made the hardest parts of his task simple. Geralt had to be there, and--Jaskier slowed and came to a halt a short distance from where he'd started. The trees and brush swayed around him and he drew a quiet breath as he considered the danger ahead.

Geralt had been taken. 

There hadn't been a heap of bloody elves anywhere, not that Jaskier had seen, and he felt that Donnic or Rolf would have mentioned a pile of relevant corpses. Geralt, therefore, had been taken unaware. That was...less than ideal. Geralt was, without a doubt, a great deal savvier than the bard when it came to self defense...which meant the elves were quite good at both surprising and attacking. Geralt, however, had probably not expected to be attacked by elves, which gave Jaskier an advantage.

Alright. He was clever. 

If he knew what to look for, and if he was very cautious, they could evade notice entirely, yes?

"We need to be careful," Jaskier warned in a whisper and glanced back to encourage Roach forward. 

Looking back, it turned out, had been both an extremely poor idea and absolutely necessary for his survival. Jaskier could hardly see his hand before his face, but there was enough light on the plateau that he could make out the glimmer off of the arrow-head beside his face--it nearly grazed his eye as he turned back to wave at Roach. He flinched away from that glittering, sudden edge, so sharply that it he effectively threw himself to the ground. He'd stumbled as he recoiled and, without one of his legs to aid him, he'd fallen in a clean arc until his back hit dirt.

Jaskier's eyes went wide and he stared up at the two elves that had all but manifested from the shadows around them. They hadn't crested the peak more than a few moments ago, that they'd already been flanked and captured was impressive and terrifying. 

The bard held his hands up immediately, hoping his show of deference was clear enough that he might avoid a gruesome death, and the elf nearest to him stepped up. They stood over him, bow drawn and arrow glittering in the darkness, and took aim at his chest. The second elf moved, and to Jaskier they looked as insubstantial as a shadow in the night. They came alongside Roach and Jaskier felt a nervous thrill dart down his spine. The horse had gone very still, but her ears were back and Jaskier could see the shadow of her breath in the cold night air. He couldn't see or hear the little bluebird and, really, that was for the best, wasn't it?

He had heard it said: elven archers could put an arrow through a bluebird's eye at two hundred meters.

Jaskier had no desire to learn if that was true.

"I'm sorry, I seem to be a little lost?" Jaskier hazarded weakly, his smile mild and befuddled. He couldn't see the elf's face in the darkness, but the snort they let out was both derisive and feminine. 

The arrow aimed at his heart didn't move at all.

Now, his Elder was hardly anything to praise, and he'd never come anywhere near fluency. Jaskier knew a few choice phrases, knew how to be truly insulting to someone's mother or father, and had picked up a smattering of vocabulary here and there. He wouldn't have even considered attempting to negotiate in the language but, when they started speaking, he found that he could nearly keep up.

Jaskier missed their first exchange, but that was hardly his fault. His heart was pounding in his chest and, in his mortal terror, he hadn't expected them to speak anything but common. The elf in the back murmured two quick words--they were sharp and biting and Jaskier couldn't even guess what he'd said. The one that stood over him had a higher voice, (definitely a woman,) and her answer was a single harsh word. He heard her clearly when she spoke but the command had been something he had never heard before. Jaskier grimaced and closed his eyes, braced and waited to hear the creak of her bow, but it never came. 

The arrow she had drawn was never loosed.

Roach screamed--it was a terrible whining sound, one that would haunt Jaskier, and it was immediately followed by the scuffle of hooves and the grunting of the far elf. Jaskier's eyes flew open and he shoved himself upright, heedless of the weapon aimed at his chest. He moved so quickly, with so little reserve, that he actually cut his cheek on the arrowhead as he sat up. He stared into the dark and tried to pick apart what was happening, to tell where Roach ended and the elf began and what the sounds of struggle meant.

"Leave her be!" Jaskier shouted and, for his trouble, the woman standing over him planted her boot on his chest and shoved him over. His back hit the ground and she leaned her weight forward to pin him in place. He struggled to move, to sit up, and her boot slid to rest against the base of his throat. He heard the creak of her bow, then, and his eyes darted back to her, even as he tried to watch what was happening to poor Roach.

The horse screamed again but there was no terrible splash, no sudden awful noise of slaughter. She whined, sounding almost drunk, and the elf who was struggling with her hissed a curse. The shuffling slowed and there were a few heavy sounds like Roach dropping to her knees--or had the elf dropped and taken Roach forward? Flat on his back, he couldn't see anything and the pressure on his neck warned him not to try.

This time, Jaskier was alert enough, was prepared enough, that he understood what was said.

 _"Next time there is a horse, you wrestle it--"_ The elf in the back let out a grunt of exertion and Roach made a sleepy, alarmed whine. There was a heavy sound and a deep grunt as she finally fell over and Jaskier's stomach dropped to his knees.

 _"You lost the flip, you drug the horse,"_ the woman above Jaskier replied casually, her tone mechanical. _"This one looks like a field-human, do we kill him?"_

'No,' Jaskier would have very much liked to shout, but he currently had a great deal of trouble breathing. Her boot pressed down on his neck as she ruminated and any thought of speech flew from his mind. His panic spiked but the feeling was subdued, somewhat, by the lack of air. Alarm still hummed in his veins as he stared up at the shadow-faced elf, but it was numbed--desperation was what had him gripping her foot and trying to shove her off. She smiled down at him, her teeth glimmering like the metal tip of the arrow, and huffed a fond sound of impatience.

 _"Hey, you forget how to hear?"_ she called and, behind her, the other elf was silent. Jaskier could see the outline of him as he rose. He moved very slowly toward them and, as he stepped, a the sound of a twig snapping resounded through the trees. His hand hovered at his side for just a moment and, with that same, gradual intent, he drew a long, curved sword from his hip.

Something about his movements managed to grab Jaskier's attention. This was no small feat considering that he was worried for Roach, that he couldn't breathe, and currently had a weapon aimed at his heart as an elf woman crushed his throat. Jaskier watched the approaching elf and squinted--

 _"Hey, what are you fucking doing?"_ The woman seethed over her shoulder and Jaskier, after several seconds, figured out what was strange about the other elf. He could hardly see in the darkness, every shape looked the same, but that elf seemed uncanny because he had been backing away. The woman standing on Jaskier's throat leaned her weight forward hard, just to keep him pinned, and Jaskier's hands scrambled against her foot as he tried to pry it up. She twisted, to shout at the other elf, and he heard her slight gasp.

Jaskier measured time in heartbeats, then, as the elf crushed the breath out of him with the heel of her boot. He had the sensation that he was falling, like this was a terrible dream, but that lurching nausea didn't fade and he certainly didn't wake. He couldn't speak or gasp or move--his lungs burned as he tried to gasp, and felt like they might turn themselves inside out. She didn't even react as he dug his fingers into her leg. 

It felt like years passed but, quite probably, it was only seconds.

There was a part of the brain, in humans and in most beasts, that was left over, a remnant from times long before magic, before kingdoms, before any of it, and it had one task. Only one. The only thing it had ever done, for thousands and thousands of years, was force the body to sit up and pay close attention. It was a warning about imminent danger. It was the heart of fear itself. There was no arguing with it, no ignoring it or appeasing it, and when it took hold the only response was instinct. Options narrowed and the world was made utterly simple--fight, freeze, or flee. 

There was nothing else. 

Jaskier didn't know if elves were the same as humans, as the little creatures of the world, if they had that piece to warn them...but as his vision started to fade, he thought the answer was probably: 'Yes'.

The sound that rumbled through the air started so low, came from a place so deep, that Jaskier couldn't hear it. He could feel it, but only distantly, like far off thunder. It grew louder and seemed to condense in the air around them. It curled through the night and curdled the blood. It rose from a rumble to something sharper, like teeth against the back of his neck, and while the highest parts of that sound seemed small, the bone-deep rumble had never once ceased. 

That snarling growl was the sound that taught men to fear. 

It had taught them before they were even men.

All men knew it, but Jaskier, he was different. He _recognized_ it.

Jaskier had never heard anything so sweet in all his life.

 _"When I swing, run--"_ The elf with the sword hesitated, a dark shape against a dark sky, but his plan did not matter in the slightest. The woman above Jaskier recoiled suddenly and her foot came off his neck--the world exploded as he inhaled, his lungs seized against the sudden rush and he choked on the abundance of air around him. He heard the elven woman fire thrice--her arrows hit brush. Then he heard the sounds of heavy footfalls and scraping nails, she shouted but the sound had been cut short by a heavy, meaty snap.

The other elf charged, ran past him, and Jaskier twisted as he tried to push himself up. He got onto his forearms just as the war-cry of that elf was snuffed out. He couldn't see anything more than shapes in the darkness, but the wet crunch and the sound of liquid splashing against the ground was illustrative enough. 

His eyes had begun to water the moment that archer had cut off his air--now, he wept openly as he fought to catch his breath.

The heavy footfalls drew closer and Jaskier watched as that great dark shape stepped out from beneath the trees. It changed, all at once, as the hazy light of the night sky fell on it. It turned a misty grey and Jaskier beamed. He laughed through his tears as he forced himself up and opened his arms.

"Duck!" he wheezed and the great white wolf charged up to him. It slotted itself into place before him and shoved its whole head against his chest. Jaskier wrapped his arms around it, cradled the wolf's head and sunk his fingers deep into its thick fur. The smell of it--that smell of dirt, of musk, and something like onion--Jaskier just inhaled against Duck's neck and rubbed his tear-streaked face across its impossibly soft fur. 

The wolf made a low, inaudible sound and shifted, nuzzling his chest harder, and Jaskier managed another wheezing laugh.

"I missed you too," he said, almost hiccuping as he sobbed and gasped for air all at once. "Thank you, my love, thank you--you're always there when I need you most."

It pained him but he drew away, held onto his wolf's face and lifted it up so he could look it in the eyes. In the grey light of night, the brown reflected just so. Duck's gaze glittered gold as it caught the light and Jaskier sighed, happily. Duck stared back at him, nearly fretting, and huffed as the bard rubbed gentle circles into its cheeks. Jaskier ignored the dark stains that marked its fur and paws, the liquid that dripped from its jaw, none of that mattered. He petted Duck's face tenderly, almost wistfully, but they shouldn't--they shouldn't waste time, no matter how he wanted to--there was a rescue to complete, and Roach, lovely girl, he had to check on her.

"My sweet, wonderful, beloved Duck," Jaskier whispered and leaned to bump his forehead against the space between Duck's ears. "I need your help...and there's someone I want you to meet."


	19. Witcher

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is very violent. It is also entirely skippable. Check the bottom for TL;DR, if you would like to skip the extensive gratuitous violence.

No one returned.

It had taken hours for his vision to settle, hours more still for the thickness in his head to wane. Geralt listened as his pulse gradually cleared his ears--the slow hammering of it was constant, beating with a thrum behind his eyes. Time crept ever onward and, as the cold light of dawn started to drive the stars out, he cracked his eyes. 

Elves moved quietly and the stone floors didn't bend under their weight. They were able to travel so quickly and so stealthily that he nearly missed their approach all together. He heard them when they entered the hall outside of his cell, but only just. The whistling wind hid them from his hearing, from the focus he tried to direct to that hall, until they were nearly at the door. 

There were three sets of boots. Two of them wore metal armor and scabbards, the last wore nothing he could hear, not beyond the sounds of their footfalls on the floor. They came to the door and, for the first time, Geralt heard them open the latch that held it closed.

There hadn't been any lock. 

"Hmm."

The door was thrown open and three armored elves entered in a rush, eyes darting and expressions steeled--he recognized the woman who came through first and she didn't bother glancing aside as she entered. Her gaze fell straight on him. Geralt stared back at her and, in that moment, he knew that she'd finally been given the order to do more than beat him with the club she held. 

Time seemed to hold, in that moment after they had entered. They held each others eyes and he heard her suck in a steadying breath through her teeth. There would be no demand, no insults--she knew what he was, now. 

That was why she had help.

The two who followed her--hardened soldiers with impressive scars and wary stances--they hadn't been caught up in that tangle, they had turned their attention to the edges of the room that were hidden by the door. They spent that bare moment unwisely, used it to scan the whole of the room before they looked to him. He wondered what they were searching for, what merited the wasted time, but in the end it didn't matter.

They should have drawn the swords at their sides instead. 

That moment broke apart the very instant those elves turned to Geralt. Lyfia didn't flip her club this time, didn't posture, and charged forward to bring that club down with all of her strength. It was a move that left her open, that took all her force, that had both her hands bracing against the haft--it had been a good plan, to try a heavy blow like that while he was bound. 

She was more efficient than he'd guessed she'd be. She might've had him, if his ties had been stronger or more numerous.

Geralt had been correct about how little effort it would have taken to break his bonds. The cord around his wrists snapped under the full flex of his arms and he twisted as she lunged, straining against the weight behind him. Her club swung past him and grazed his chest--he lunged forward, jolting the cord that tethered him with a splintering creak, and grabbed the haft of that club.

Lyfia snapped in Elder and drove her club forward into his lunge. It was a smart move and he lacked the balance to contest it. She shoved him back, hard, and he bent back over a curved wooden surface--a chest? In a flash she had a hand raised and her forearm swinging down to catch him across the face. Geralt jerked her weapon and here he found leverage--she lost her footing, desperate to keep a hold on that club, and Geralt's free hand grabbed her by the elbow. Her eyes were wide when he yanked her down and drove his forehead into her face.

Lyfia staggered back, and the smell of fresh blood filled the air. 

The men she'd brought with her were soldiers but Geralt moved with monstrous speed and Lyfia had been a far sight faster than either of them. She attacked, he caught it, she shouted, and only then had they finally drawn their blades from the scabbards. Lyfia staggered, bleeding and disarmed, eyes glazed, and Geralt had her club before either elf could swing. The first brought his sword down in an arch and Geralt was able to deflect it aside--the club was ungainly and he was unaccustomed to it but it had its uses--he flipped it to his other hand, righted it, and when the second elf stabbed , he hooked it round his wrist and levered it up as he yanked back.

The elf shouted as the bones of his wrist snapped and, at once, Geralt was able to release the club an catch the sword he'd dropped. It hadn't even hit the ground before he caught it--a smooth outward arc of the blade carved a narrow furrow out of his chest plate and scraped the stone floor. The sound was grating and terrible, but it freed him of his bonds.

The armed soldier did manage to catch him in the side, then, with a stab to the gap of his armor. It glanced as Geralt freed himself and while it caught his stomach and cut a messy line across it, the sword hadn't managed to dive deep enough to do real damage. The elf drove it forward with force enough that the blade came out through the armor on Geralt's other side but, unfortunately, his attack brought him in close. Geralt wrapped his free arm around that elf's sword arm and held him in place as he cut it clean off at the elbow.

The limb hit the floor as Geralt finally stood. His legs were mostly numb--when Lyfia threw the dagger and it hit his thigh, he barely felt it connect. He looked back to find her crouched, teeth bared and face half covered in blood--her nose was still dripping. Geralt hesitated, then, because she did not reach for another dagger. The elf at his side, the one with the broken wrist, did not.

The curved dagger flashed in Geralt's periphery and he managed to parry it aside before it caught him across the face. It clipped his hair as he leaned away--he bit out a hiss as the blade through his armor cut back into his stomach and he was forced to step back as he drew it back out. The pain had distracted him--the soldier kicked the club back to Lyfia and by the time he had drawn that sword free, he faced two armed opponents. 

The room stank of blood. He could hear the racing of their hearts, all save the elf behind him, who had fainted and whose heart beat weaker with each passing thrum. It was Lyfia who lunged first, her club in hand and her footwork fast--her face had already started to swell and he could taste the fear on her. The soldier at her side didn't wait, he went low as she struck high. 

Geralt blocked her with one blade, had planned to parry with the other, but she was deft with that club and a twist of it had the blade shifting in his grip, too slick with blood to prevent it. She yanked it aside and swung in for a kick. 

She was the greater threat between the two opponents and Geralt made a decision. The elf at his side carved his dagger against Geralt's armor, drove it through in a cut that was deeper than he'd have liked. Geralt let him and, when it was embedded between the studded leather and the Witcher's flesh, he flipped the other sword and drove it down through the soldier's neck. The man fell limp and Geralt stumbled back as Lyfia's kick caught him right across the long sword wound.

Geralt abandoned both blade as he stumbled, freed both hands, and left Lyfia unbalanced. She had to cast the sword aside, sling the one she'd tangled in the curve of her club to the ground, and when she did, Geralt lunged and struck her with his fist. He caught her in the throat and her eyes went wide as she was knocked back. Her grip on her club didn't falter, but he could see where she choked, where her breathing went tight. 

She pulled her club around, swung it, but went wide. 

Geralt knocked her back with another blow to her torso--the rest of her air was driven from her, then, and she gaped as he grabbed her head round her ears and pulled her down as he drove his knee up. 

She hit the ground alive, but unconscious, and her club tumbled from her fingers. It clattered to the stone floor and then it was quiet once more.

Adrenaline had driven the numbness from his legs and fingers and, as he stood, he began to feel his injuries. He pulled the dagger from his thigh--a short thing that had only held on because the end had a hooked curve. He tossed it aside and eyed the much larger, curved blade that was caught in his side, buried in the leather of his armor. That wound had cut deeper than he liked, he could already feel how it would part when he drew the blade out.

"Fuck," he hissed and left the dagger in as he searched himself. He hadn't yet taken stock--they'd taken all of his weapons, all of his belts, the pouch he wore on his hip. The only things he'd been left with were his armor and his medallion. His first task, then, had to be retrieval of his equipment and the potions he'd brought. Until then, he would have to leave that blade in place and that...for so many reasons, was less than ideal.

Geralt knelt and, with a sharp yank, pulled the blade from the elf who'd gifted him his newest dagger. The body fell in a heap once it was free and he swung the steel once to knock the worst of the blood from it. It splattered messily but, when he walked from that cell, the blade had only scattered beads and streaks of gore upon it. He wiped what remained on the outside of his leggings and hoped he wouldn't soon be leaving a trail of his own.

The hall beyond the cell was empty and the only sounds that greeted him as he stepped out into it were distant and came from below. There was a yard somewhere to the south--the north end, by the sounds of it, was windward. Geralt didn't relish the idea of meandering through an open area with an injury and, if pressed, he would have guessed any steps on the windward side of the mountain would be sparsely populated.

He headed north--or planned on it, and started moving with that steel sword in one hand and his other braced against the dagger buried near his hip. The doors in his hall were sparse, the rooms beyond were dark and smelled of damp and mold. None had been opened in some long time and, unfortunately, that complicated matters. 

If the other prisoners were not kept here, then he had to find them. His cell had been awash in blood before he could find the scent of the woman who came to him last night. Without Cat, he couldn't track something so faint, not against wind and crowds. He could follow the path of those soldiers, Lyfia and the two he'd killed, but that was not a guarantee he would find anything--what if he followed their steps back and found himself in a guardhouse? In a training yard?

Geralt knew how fast, how dangerous he could be. He knew how hard it would have been for anyone here to face him in single combat...but now he had a messy wound and unfamiliar weapons. If he ran into any substantial force, this would become either a massacre or his tomb. 

Unfortunately, he didn't have a better idea, and the scent of those soldiers had come from the end of the hall he had already decided to check.

Fine--he decided, with a sigh, that he might as well retrace their paths, so long as they didn't tread somewhere too risky.

There were no guards stationed at the end of the hall. He heard no heartbeats, smelled no leather or elven sweat--there was just wind and pine. He leaned around the corner--the hall emptied onto a short landing, carved from the rock as it all had been, and then there was an abrupt, perilous fall beyond it. 

Wherever he was, whether it was a stronghold or simply an elven village, the whole of it seemed to have been cut into and from the living stone. A set of stone stairs wound along the side of the mountain, down toward the base of the standing rocks. It was a long flight and a long fall, and the way the wall turned he couldn't tell when or where the next landing would open. 

The sun hadn't risen yet, not in earnest. He had a few minutes before it did, before the last stars vanished and sunlight spilled over the horizon. Geralt moved quickly down the stone steps; the wind cut up the mountain side and whistled past him, strong and cold with the edge of weight that heralded rain. 

He passed one landing and another, each with bent halls and doors set into the wall, each opened to the other side, and each carried a different series of small noises and distant scents. The wind absorbed most everything. It should have made it harder for him, but it only narrowed his searching. Three landings, four, five--he took the steps quickly and the bottom grew near. The base of the standing stone was shrouded by trees and brush. When he moved into the wake of those trees, at the very base of the steps, he caught the soldiers' scent again.

Geralt tracked that scent with swift steps but, to his frustration, the wound at his hip had stretched during his haste down the stairs. His hand pressed in further, holding the blade tucked between two fingers rather than by the handle, but he could feel it saturating his shirt. He needed his potions before the dagger could be driven deeper or pulled free.

"Do we have any more lavender?" 

The voice brought him up short and he stopped. He'd heard a dozen or more whispers and distant voices speaking Elder as he took the steps, each muffled by the wind or the walls, but this was the only voice he'd heard speaking common. It was the woman who had tried to treat his face.

The hall at the base of the stairs went deep into the stones and branched out like a maze. Geralt had been following one side, tracking the soldiers' steps, but that voice had spoken as he passed a split in the hall. She was on the other side of the wall but with an edge of clarity that stone walls rarely afforded--an open door? He hesitated at the junction. 

Geralt debated whether to find his pack or the other prisoners first. He would have to lead two of them clear from this place, he needed a vial of Swallow...but he also didn't know if his pack was at the soldiers' point of origin. He huffed a heavy breath, pressed his hand more tightly into his side, and veered off down the branching passage. He could already feel the blood welling between his fingers.

"There--please put that there--"

On Geralt's approach he slowed his steps again--the open door yawned down the hall and, unfortunately, the angle of his approach meant he couldn't see into the room until he was at the threshold. He heard steps, two pairs of feet walking inside, and the light crackle of a burning hearth. One set moved close enough to the doorway that their shadow cast out into the hall. The Witcher drew close to the door, as silently as he was able, and whoever stood close enough that they cast shadows had not moved off. 

It was a risky decision, but he was low on time. With only a quick pause to review the sounds of the room, Geralt moved rounded the corner and stepped through. He released his wound and reached as he moved, grabbed the figure by the door and, to his consternation, discovered that the woman he wanted was not the person he had grabbed. The elf in his hands froze with panic, heart-rate spiking and breath coming in sharp, panicked bursts behind Geralt's bloody hand.

The room wasn't nearly as sparse as the cell Geralt had been held in. It was wide, had a myriad of tables and containers filled with herbs, flowers, and powders. The scent was enough to overwhelm him and Geralt felt ill. The elf in his arms had been sorting flowers into a wooden pail--the prisoner woman was standing over a basin of water, rinsing something he could not see. On a far table, near the corner, there was a basket filled with small bottles, the sort she had brought to his cell. 

Beside that basket was his belt and pouch. It had been opened.

The elf in his arms drew a breath, remembered to struggle, and Geralt hadn't the time or energy to wrestle with them. He shifted them quickly, as quickly as he could, and flipped the sword in his other hand. He brought the pommel down across the back of their neck and the panicked elf went slack as he knocked them unconscious. Geralt dropped them and, as they crumpled in a heap at his feet, the human woman across the room startled at the sound.

She whipped around, a wide-mouthed bottle clutched in her soapy hands and when she saw him a blind panic gripped her. Her eyes went round and her grip failed as a tremor crept through her hands. Geralt couldn't make it across the room to catch the bottle as she dropped it, but the way she'd sucked in a breath, the terror on her face, meant he had to get to her--the bottle dropped and shattered with a loud, glassy pop. Not a moment later, the shards crunched beneath his boot. Geralt lunged to press his hand across her mouth before she could scream. 

It was reflex. 

He understood that. 

He was not a reassuring figure, he had appeared from nowhere, soaked in blood, holding a sword, and she hadn't seen him before he knocked out the elf by the door. Her shock had caused her to drop the bottle just as the sight of him had caused her to scream--and she did, with all the force of her lungs. His hand was firm against her face and the sound was muffled to nearly nothing. She screamed hard, her face turned red with the effort, and the firm hold he had on her did nothing to calm her down.

A long, terrible moment passed after that bottle fell, after she screamed. He kept her clutched close, still--Geralt turned his attention to the door but, even as he waited, no thunder of approaching boots resounded down the hall. The world beyond that door was still and silent. The only sounds in this room were the crackling of the small hearth and the panicked half-whimpering of the startled woman he was here to free.

Geralt turned his attention back to her and felt a confused, horrified whine against his hand. A tear rolled down her cheek and he steeled his expression. The hand he'd pressed over her mouth had been the same one he had covered the elf's with, the one he'd held his wound with. It was covered in his blood. Her eyes tracked to it and then to his hip. That side of his leggings had already been stained red halfway past his knee. 

"Fuck," he hissed and pulled his hand away from her mouth. The smear of blood was livid and she backed away quickly, swiping at it almost frantically with her sleeve. She sucked down air in great gulping gasps and sagged back against the tub she'd been standing at. Geralt watched her as she dissolved into hyperventilating. She would calm, though not with his help he would wager, so he simply nodded and moved to the table alongside her to grab his pouch.

The bottles inside had been shuffled, but none were missing and none had been opened. He lacked the time to question that, now, and gripped a vial of _Kiss_. He pulled the stopper out of it with his teeth and, with his free hand, he gripped the blood-slick handle of the dagger in his hip. With a sharp pull the blade was free and, in the same breath he downed the acrid potion. It tasted of death, liquor, and bog water but, as he drank it, he felt it spread down his throat and bite into his stomach. It was painful bordering on excruciating, but the bleeding would slow to a halt in moments.

"Is--is he--did you?" The woman on the floor had control of her brearhing by the time he drank. Her voice had gone impossibly small and, when he looked back at her, he saw how she had paled, how her wide eyes had fixed on the unconscious elf by the door. Large patches of the fallen elf's clothing were stained with blood and Geralt sighed.

"No, the blood is mine," he told her and her gaze snapped to him.

"How--why--you're here--"

"I'm here for you," Geralt said, answered as best he could given how disjointed the question had been. She didn't move and he was briefly concerned she would faint. He disn't want to carry her out of here, but he would manage if he had to. Geralt pressed a hand against the gash at his hip--already the blood around the wound had gone sticky and solid.

"No one saw me come down here, and if that crash didn't alert them, nothing will," he said. He aimed for reassuring but he had never been very good at that. He heard her breath catch and turned his attention to his pouch. He swept the bottles back in and hauled the belt and bag off the table. He bent to retrieve the sword from the floor but, as he did, a strange sensation came over him. He shivered, or something like it, and his outstretched hand seized--the muscles up his arm tensed hard, jerking and goes tense and immobile in a cascade. His fingers closed hard enough that that the limb shivered with the force of it.

What the fuck?

Geralt grunted, strained his fingers and tried to open them again. They refused to move. Had the _Kiss_ been tampered with? Had he mixed it wrong? His fingers bit into his palm, his arm shook and flexed, frozen in place. The sensation was so strange, so sudden that it took him a moment to notice the way his medallion jumped and jittered against his armor.

Magic?

He looked back up and saw the woman at his side. Her gown was the color of blood, her skin was pale and dirty, and her wide brown eyes had a wildness to them. She had pushed herself up, had stood. He could smell the weight of her terror, could see it in the shaking of her hands--hands that were extended toward him and gripped tightly into fists. At first, it didn't make sense, but the the pull of magic shimmered just on the edge of his vision--threads of crimson and shadow stretched the distance from her fists to his arm, to his legs. They warped the space between them, bent the air like folds in fabric--shit.

She was a sorceress? No, she didn't have the look of a sorceress. She was a hedge witch. 

"You--you stay away from me--" Her voice trembled but her magic did not. Her fear had a tang of desperation. 

She thought he was here to kill her.

Geralt tried to speak, but the moment he moved his jaw, it seized as well. The pull was tangled with his limbs, woven around him, between the pieces of him, like spider-silk around a fly. He tried to stand, to lean back, to grab that sword, but each flinch was denied and each denial pulled the web tighter, made the threads shine brighter and cut deeper where they wrapped around and into him. He was snared, and he could do little but stare at her as she stared at him, heavy tears rolling down her cheeks as she held him. 

"You won't even get paid--do you know that?" Her question was soft, hushed, and just this side of unhinged. Her hands shook as she held him in place, but where the threads cut into him like they'd been threaded on some strange needle, they didn't bite at her. "There's no gold in it--they've gone to kill him now--I haven't done anything! I didn't--I don't-- _why did you come for me?_ "

He couldn't answer, couldn't move, and he had no idea how strong she might be.

She was terrified of him...and knew what he was.

This was bad.

" _I just--_ " her voice caught, went sharp as she swallowed around a sob. " _I just wanted to help--they said they wou--I could go home, when it was done--I just--_ "

Her knuckles were white where she clenched her hands. Her arms strained as she pulled back toward herself, heaving a heavy weight. Geralt felt his bones creak as she moved him, stood him back up and unfolded him--his limbs fought against her, trying to hold tight in the shape she'd snared him in--she fought against her own hold over him, unwilling to release one spell as she wove the next. Everything was shuddering, splintering agony as she shoved his limbs into the right configuration to stand.

The shift gave him just a bit of freedom--the pull of the snare weakened as she moved him. It wasn't nearly enough to move an arm, to move and speak, but the more she puppeted him, the more of the threads holding him went slack. He strained against her and watched as she struggled, as her wide eyes darted over him, watching as he tensed and forced her spell to go taut. 

" _I just want to go home!_ " she snapped and Geralt felt a twinge of regret as he freed his left hand. His wrist popped and pain shot up his arm as he twisted, but he managed to form _Aard_ \--the sign pulsed the short distance between them and the witch was thrown back. The tub next to her upended with the force of _Aard_ and a rush of water spilled across the stone. The wash water was slick and there was enough of it that it splashed to the wall before flooding back. It prevented her from keeping her feet beneath her as she staggered. 

Geralt was thrown back as surely as she was, and the force of the sign nearly tossed him across the room. The threads went tight as steel wire, and cut into his skin, and dented his leather armor in a web of fine lines. The threads vibrated, strained with the distance before snapping _en masse_. Geralt stumbled immediately, dropping to a knee as all of his limbs released their tension at once. The witch hit the wall with a heavy, audible thump--her feet scrambled but she slid to the floor, coughing and shaking with the sudden recoil of her spell-work.

Geralt gritted his teeth and dove to retrieve the sword he'd left on the floor. The handle was wet but, at the very least, it was now wet with water rather than blood. He rose and all his joints protested, each aching with a glittering, new variety of pain--what a treat. He didn't know there were any varieties of that left to learn about. He drew a deep breath once he had finally regained his feet--the heady mix of herbs and remedies dazed him.

Remedies?

The witch coughed and shuddered against the wall and Geralt made a terrible error. His attention drifted and he let himself take in the room around them.

It was filled with dried or drying herbs, fresh flowers in buckets ready to be crushed or set out before the small hearth. Geralt looked up and found bundles of celandine hanging from pins driven into the stone ceiling. Elven healing didn't look like this, didn't smell like this--she--

She was a witch.

Geralt's attention snapped back to the far wall but the woman in red had reclaimed her feet. She was hunched over with one arm wrapped around her middle, clutching her side--the other had an open-fingered grip on the air in front of her. Her hair had fallen from its bindings and hung, half wet, around her face. It didn't manage to obscure the manic gleam in her eyes.

"I'm not--" Geralt began, speaking as quickly as he could, but the fingers of her extended hand closed and he was caught again. She swung her arm to the side, her whole face screwed up with the effort of it, and he was thrown through the air like a child's doll. He hit a shelf, knocked over a myriad of buckets and pails, and scattered flowers and herbs across everything in his wake. The snare around him went lax as he hit the floor by the door--the impact drove the air out of him, threatened to rip open the wounds on his torso that had just closed, but he held onto that sword. It was for comfort more than use, he realized, in the moment he lay prone on the floor.

He couldn't kill her.

He didn't want to, of course, but the longer he smelled the air in the room the more clear his task became. He couldn't kill her.

He needed her.

"Alva, wait--" Geralt wheezed as he reclaimed his breath. His ribs ached as he pulled himself up--the threads were still wrapped around him, he could still see them hanging limply over his limbs and glittering on the floor. The woman in red moved between him and the hearth. The space between them was cast in shadow and he watched those strands pull tight to her hand again. 

Fuck.

"I have to go home!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TD;DR - Geralt is a badass and it turns out there is no old woman. The Apothecary's wife is a witch.
> 
> Additional notes: Life is crazy babes but I am working on this again as hard as I can.


End file.
